


Tainted

by Riptide



Series: Sanguinarius Sanctus [1]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Dragon Age: Origins - Freeform, F/F, F/M, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-11-07 17:25:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 66
Words: 171,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/433598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riptide/pseuds/Riptide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follow an elf named Athadra as she climbs out of the long shadow cast by the Circle Tower into a fight she never asked for, whose conclusion is far from forgone. She will know passion, betrayal, anger, terror, and maybe even a few laughs along the way.</p><p>Not a scene-by-scene reconstruction; there are several interesting deviations from the standard Origins game throughout. Trigger warning for non-consensual references in several places. Most chapters are 'Teen and Up,' especially for the first half of the story, but several later chapters involve graphic depictions of violence and some very sexual situations.  (The mirror wherein all chapters are 'Teen and Up' can be found here: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/9033877/1/Tainted)</p><p>Feel free to leave any comments.</p><p>NOTE: There is now an "ADDENDA" section of the Sanguinarius Sanctus series, which contains background information, calendars, timelines and the like for the stories in the series, which will be updated alongside the stories. Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/444016</p><p>Also, for those interested, there is an in-depth character study of Athadra here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/1112952</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Life is But a Dream...

“Do you want to talk about it?” To his credit, Duncan seemed as uncomfortable as Athadra did. When she offered no response beyond a shrug, he turned his gaze back over the water. The rest of the recruiting party was a half-day’s rowing ahead of them, for which she was grateful. She didn’t feel like being around too many men at the moment. Rowing still hurt, but it was a dull ache deep between her legs, rather than the sharp clawing at her abdomen the first hour on the lake had seen. She was no Spirit Healer, but she’d paid attention to her lessons.

They were rowing a small boat across the vastness of Lake Calenhad from the tower of the Circle of Magi to Redcliffe, and the silence seemed to suit the Grey Warden as well as it suited her for the rest of the day. They rowed together for hours, with no sound but watter slapping wood; he never seemed to tire, though she caught a few beads of sweat trickling down his neck near dusk. His armour weighed down the small boat’s prow, and beside her newly-won mage robes, his undertunic seemed threadbare and worn. When the sun grew fat on the Western horizon, Duncan gestured to a near shore, and they ran aground on one of the large islands which Lake Calenhad’s Northern reaches boasted. Duncan’s companions would have gone on, he said, rowing all night. Evidently she’d get to meet this Alistair and the other two recruits at their destination.

“And where is that, exactly?” She finally asked, once their small fire had cooked a pheasant for their supper.

Duncan paused, considering, and evidently judged her worthy of knowing the truth. “We head to Ostagar, at the foot of the Korcari Wilds. I apologize...I should have spoken with you. Before. If I had...”

“I were a might distracted at the time,” she said to the fire. Her black hair was up, revealing her small, pointed ears. When it hung loose about her shoulders, she could almost pass for human, though her accent lilted at the edges of some of her words. She wondered where Jowan was, if he was even still alive. “Have you seen blood magic before?” Her crimson eyes moved to him, on the other side of the flames.

“Once, when I was new to the Wardens,” he admitted. “I am sorry I was not there to witness it at the tower...” She could not meet his eyes, and so watched the flames dance in the griffon emblem on his breastplate. He’d said he often slept in his armour, but he wouldn’t drown in it. Athadra swallowed and chewed her lip absent-mindedly. She remembered him bickering with Knight-Commander Greagoir, outside of her cell. _There are worse things in the world than blood mages_. It had taken him a day to find her after the _incident_ with Jowan, and another day for him to convince First Enchanter Irving and the Knight-Commander to release her into his custody. That had given her plenty of time to get to know her gaoler, whether she’d wanted to or not. “Do you know it?”

Athadra blinked and shivered, her gaze regaining his face. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “Jowan didn’t tell me _he_ did, either. Not that that kept them from tryin’ to ship me off to Aeonar.” Duncan frowned in displeasure, but she could not tell if that was from mention of the mages’ prison, or the fact that she _wasn’t_ a maleficar.

“Ostagar,” she probed, trying to change the subject.

“Ostagar,” Duncan echoed. “I assume you know where it is. It’s the closest fortified position to the _Groundbreak_ \--what we call the point where the Blight first begins. We are lucky, in a way, that the Groundbreak happened deep in the Wilds.”

“I’d bet the Chasind don’t feel the same way,” Athadra interjected.

He grunted. “Be that as it may, the Chasind are a small price to pay to decapitate a Blight. Even Denerim would be a better field of battle than the heart of Thedas.” His brow drew down as he contemplated the flames, and Athadra shivered. “We have suffered peace for too long; only the Qunari have turned us away from our petty distractions in four centuries. Now we have an Archdemon at the gates of Ferelden, and only thirteen Wardens and three recruits to face it.” He seemed to be talking to himself, now, and Athadra did not interrupt him. After a few long moments he sighed. “We should turn in for the night; if we start early, we can make the Redcliffe docks by nightfall next.”

Athadra tucked herself into her sleeping furs, holding her staff flush against her, both for ease of access and for the subtle warmth it gave off. She heard wolves howling from the other side of the island, but Duncan assured her that their fire would keep burning through the night, and so she fell asleep to the sound of waves breaking on the shore.

The next morning saw her tangled in her furs with wet leaves in her mouth; more floated around her, stuck on the transparent force field she’d cast just before jerking awake. Duncan kept his distance until the spell faded. They’d both screamed in the night for their own reasons, but neither saw fit to mention it. They decamped in silence once more; Athadra was merely glad to put as many miles between herself and the Circle as she could row.

Breakfast was berries and nuts eaten on the boat between oarstrokes, and there was no lunch. By the time the sun had passed its zenith, Athadra could make out nothing of the island on which they’d bivouacked the previous night, nor any sign of another shore. They could have been lost in the Amaranthine Ocean and heading Eastward, off the edge of the world, for all she could tell.

“I wasn’t under the impression the Circle let its mages develop their strength,” Duncan remarked near mid-afternoon, after nine hours of steady work. They were sweating again, and the boat smelt worse than the spider-infested storage catacombs of the tower.

“Came to the Circle when I were ten,” she answered, her voice cracking after so long without use. When Duncan arched an eyebrow at her, she grunted, letting out a long sigh. Her arms didn’t stop their slow rhythm, matching his as closely as she could. “My grandad were Dalish and had the touch of magic, but he weren’t a Keeper, nor in line to become one.”

“Surely he could have become Keeper of another clan,” Duncan observed. “Or founded his own.”

“Don’t ask me. All I know’s that he settled down with my gran just outside Lothering. That way.” She looked off to her right and back behind her shoulder, imagining she could see across the water to the sleepy little village. “We were tenant farmers, no land of our own. It kept the shems from asking too many questions.” Her accent was thickening a bit, almost consciously. Outside of the gaze of the templars and her tutors, she felt less pressure to sound like the elves from the alienages.

Duncan cleared his throat. “That doesn’t explain how you’ve kept up with me, Athadra,” he pointed out.

She paused. Her name sounded odd coming from his lips, until she realized he hadn’t said it with a templar’s sneer. “Like I said, the tin-tops didn’t catch me ‘till I were ten. Most mages get sprung the first time they show, or not long after. I were a late bloomer...” she snorted. “Grandad taught me how to put my magic in my muscles a bit, to help keep me safe. Lots of mages get caught because their magic comes out in an obvious way. Grandad, he was teaching me even before my mam knew for sure I had the touch.”

“And so rather than burning or freezing...”

“I just get a bit stronger, aye. It’s not much--you could still beat me at arm wrestling. Probably.” She caught him smirking, and could hardly believe it when her lips quirked in their turn. “But it let me have five, maybe six years more with my mam and dad than most mages ever get. I still have good memories, and that’s a sight better than anyone else I know from the Circle.”

“You must have kept it secret,” he said with a hint of approval. “The Chantry doesn’t allow some of the magic it knows about explicitly...I shudder to think how they might respond to the learning of abilities that they haven’t already sifted through.”

“I had to keep it quiet, aye. They don’t even let us _handle weapons_ , much less exercise. They keep us dependent on our magic and then blame us for having it. It’s disgusting.” She found herself relieved, able to say things she dared not even think for nearly half her life. If that’s what being a Grey Warden meant, she’d volunteer every season if it were necessary.

“I’ve done my best to stay out of Chantry politics, but I’ve seen what the mages undergo,” Duncan observed. “It is a wonder this semblance of order has held fast for so long...”

As the conversation continued, Athadra realized Duncan would not ask her about how she got caught, and breathed a silent sigh of relief. Talking also distracted her from the growing ache in her forearms. Before she knew it, the sun was setting and she could just make out the Southeast shore of Lake Calenhad when she turned her head. Within the hour, the great lake narrowed; a cliff with a castle built into it rose up to the left, while a mid-sized village grew out of the lakeshore directly behind them.

There was no attendant at the dock waiting for them, so Duncan tied up the boat and suited up in semidarkness. “We will find an inn to rest for the night. I would suggest separate rooms, but I’m acquainted with the arl. His lady wife is not fond of mages, and I would not put it past her to have eyes and ears on the lookout.”

Athadra looked down at her soiled robes. They were dirty and sweat-stained, but unmistakably mage’s attire, and it didn’t take her long to agree with the Grey Warden. “As long as you sleep on the floor,” she warned.

“Naturally,” Duncan replied. He fussed with the buckles of his breastplate until he was satisfied, and then got Athadra to help him distribute their supplies into two packs. They left the boat bare save for the oars. “We’ll see about trading her in the morning.”

In the gloom, she spied a building well-lit from the inside, with coloured windows. “I assume that’s the Chantry,” she remarked. It was the largest building in sight, save the castle on the hill. Duncan nodded, and did not protest when she set out along the planks of the dock, trying to put the nearest clapboard hut between her and the Chantry.

As soon as she turned the corner, however, she ran face-first into the flaming sword of a templar’s breastplate. She tried to jump back, but her knees buckled. The air was driven from her lungs by an unseen force, and she couldn’t catch herself, collapsing into a heap at the templar’s feet.

“What are you doing here, _mage_?” the man asked, his voice muffled by the full-cover helmet he wore. He moved to bend down but froze suddenly when a long dagger materialized against his throat and another sought the joint of his armour at his armpit.

Athadra saw Duncan’s boots standing between her and the templar. When she looked up, she saw that the Grey Warden was shorter than the man he held at knifepoint, but the tin-man was utterly under his control. “You address Duncan, Warden Commander of Ferelden,” he said in a cool, almost conversational tone. “My newest recruit seems to have lost her footing. Would you say that was happenchance?”

The templar took the measure of the man in front of him, fixing on the iconic griffon emblem and the blue-and-silver padding that characterized Grey Warden armour. “Knife-ear there is a mage, rowing a boat from th’ tower inna dark,” he said. From where Athadra lay she could already smell the alcohol on his breath. “Whossi s’posed to think?” He held up his hands in a supplicating gesture.

Duncan reluctantly pulled his daggers back, but he didn’t sheath either of them. “Let your commanding officer know that I am here, and that I have an elf mage in my charge. Our stay will be brief, but if we are harassed in any way by the Chantry or the templars, Arl Eamon and King Cailan will both know the reasons why.”

Those names sobered the templar up more quickly than Athadra thought possible without a rejuvenation spell, and he gave his cross-armed solute. “Yessir, I’ll let them know, sir.” He bowed and scampered off, nearly falling off the wharf in the process.

“Fool,” Duncan scoffed before turning his attention to the mage. “Can you stand?”

Athadra’s lips parted, but she couldn’t speak, and so instead she shook her head. Duncan muttered to himself in Orlesian and knelt, scooping the elf girl into his arms as though she weighed nothing at all. She hesitated for a heartbeat before collapsing into his chest, and she started trembling despite herself. Duncan found the tavern and inn from whence the templar had evidently come, and he procured for them a small room and a hot meal.

“Got any lyrium?” Athadra asked after her stomach began protesting the greyish, lumpy gruel the tavern called its Ferelden Special. Duncan dug in his pack and handed her a small vial filled with glowing blue liquid, and she downed it greedily. “The Void-taken bastard _smited me_ without a thought.”

“Some would say it was his duty,” Duncan pointed out sullenly. The gruel evidently didn’t agree with him, either.

“To the Void with his sodding _duty_ , too. When am I going to get some armour like that?” She couldn’t help but remember how quickly the griffon symbol had commanded the templar’s respect.

“We’ve assembled a cache of equipment at Ostagar. You’ll meet the others there, and likely some of the high-ranking civilians.” When he saw her raised eyebrow he chuckled at himself. “That’s what we call those who aren’t Grey Wardens, whether they fight or not.”

“To their faces?” She managed another half-smile.

“Only when occasion demands it.” He knocked back the rest of his bowl and swallowed a belch. _“Pardonnez moi, merci,”_ he said reflexively.

_“Du rien,”_ she responded in kind. When his own eyebrow arched she shrugged. _“On apprend plus que magique dans le Cercle,”_ she supplied before yawning. “A day and a half of rowing topped off with a Holy Smite. I think I’m going to sleep now. Try not to get too many splinters.”

Duncan snorted and, true to his word, settled on the floorboards between the bedding and the door. Exhaustion took Athadra, and this night her sleep was blessedly dreamless.


	2. Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duncan and Athadra keep trying to leave Redcliffe, but events conspire to keep them just a little longer. Athadra is faced with a tough choice. Will she pass the sudden test and gain Duncan's confidence?

Pain wrenched Athadra from the blackness of sleep; it coursed up her arms and licked across her shoulders. Apparently reading spells in Ancient Tevene and practicing them with a staff was not sufficient preparation for working an oar for the better part of two days, despite magic augmenting her strength. Her lips parted before her eyelids did, and she greeted the late morning with a string of slurred, half-remembered curses, capped off by a peevish “Ow.”

Duncan bit back a laugh. “I think I forgot a trinket back at the Circle Tower,” he mused. “We’ll have to go back and get it.”

“Sod you and your sodding trinket,” she muttered, unable to sit up for longer than she’d have liked. “Next piece of boat I see’s gonna be kindling. Mark my words.” And then she exhaled a chuckle, only to wince at the fire in her nerves.

“Can you not heal yourself?” Duncan asked, the levity evaporating from his tone.

“Give me a moment. Easier when it’s someone else...and when there’s something to patch up.” She closed her eyes again and breathed, drawing on the pool of energy her rest had earned her. She no longer needed to call the spells by name to cast them anymore, but this time her lips moved a bit to help her focus, and soon her nerves felt soothed enough to move without too much protest. “Not perfect, but it’ll do.”

Duncan nodded, and she saw that he’d gotten a looking-glass while she slept, and was in the process of trimming his beard. “I asked about a washbasin,” he called over his shoulder, “but the chambermaid only shook her head.”

“I suppose we could bathe in the lake...”

Duncan cocked an eyebrow at her reflection in the mirror. “You realize we are presently  over the lake, yes?” When she only nodded, he cocked his head toward the far wall. There was a bench along it with a port-hole cut out, and it didn’t take Athadra long to figure out what  that was for.

“Oh,” she said. “Right. No swimming in the lake for us, then.”

Duncan chuckled again and ran a hand over his whiskers, nodding his satisfaction. “We will likely find a decent stream along the way to Ostagar, and you’ll get some more suitable clothes after we arrive. We’ll just have to hold our noses until then.”

“Welcome to the Wardens!” Athadra exclaimed. “Pass the soapcake.” She stretched, working some more kinks from her shoulders, and reclaimed her feet. “Are we breaking our fasts?"

“More like lunch, now. And no, we should be away as quickly as possible. I do not want to risk another altercation that might distract us from our goal.”

With that, the pair left the squalid room in much the same state as they’d entered it,. Duncan settled the fee by giving their boat away sight unseen, and they spent what seemed like hours climbing out of the lake’s basin. Athadra remarked upon the village’s dry-dock and paused to feel the mist of a waterfall caress her face. They were crossing their second bridge to flatter land when they heard a shout from behind.

“Hail, Duncan,” called a man from horseback. He had a long, greying beard and dressed more fancily than Athadra had ever seen. He wore an easy smile, but the mage could not bring herself to trust his eyes. Possibly because they never once lit upon her.

“Arl,” Duncan replied, bending forward slightly, though he did not lower his eyes. By the time he straightened, the man had halted before them and was in the process of dismounting. “We only arrived late last night, and must be on our way soon.” Athadra remained silent, content not to be noticed by the important-looking man. His guards regarded her warily, however, and she gripped her staff a bit more tightly.

“You still could have called, my friend.” Arl Eamon reached out a large, pale hand and clasped Duncan’s forearm. “Any confidante of Maric’s is always welcome within my walls.”

“I appreciate the courtesy, my lord. Perhaps after your nephew secures victory, you can host the celebrations.” The Grey Warden did not return the arl’s smile, and he was not the first to relinquish the handgrip.

“Fair enough,” Eamon considered. “Speaking of Cailan, I have a gift for him. As he’s seen fit to keep my men from the thick of the fighting, perhaps he can make use of a few of my steeds in their stead.” Horses were rare beasts in Ferelden, since the Orlesian  chevaliers had abducted or slaughtered as many as they could lay hand on as the occupation drew to a close. Even Athadra knew that such a gesture could not go unrecognized.

“That is very generous of you,” Duncan remarked. “I assume they’ve been accustomed to mabari hounds?”

“Indeed they have. Not even magic will spook them, that I can assure you. In any case, I can see you are eager to go. Take the three horses, and let Cailan know that Redcliffe stands ready for his watchword.” The arl handed over the reins to the stallion he’d rode to them on, and his attendants tied a second set of reins to the saddle of the first. Athadra found the last set in her own hand. With a nod from the arl and another bow from Duncan, the nobleman and his entourage turned heel to head back to their high castle.

“Well, that were awkward,” the mage said when she judged them out of human hearing range.

“Indeed. I would have demanded he at least acknowledge you, but we really must be going. Have you ever ridden a horse before?”

Athadra laughed, and the brown-and-white horse in her grasp snorted disdainfully. “I’ve never even  seen a horse in the flesh before. They smell...odd.”

Duncan shrugged. “The Orlesians think our dogs smell oddly, too. But their horses beat our hounds for nearly a century...make of that what you will. Would you like to learn to ride?”

“If it means I don’t have to walk every step between here and Ostagar, I suppose I would,” she said.

Duncan nodded. “Watch me.” He lay a hand across the saddle’s pommel and hooked a booted foot into one of the hanging stirrups to lever himself onto the beast’s back. Despite the weight of the man with all of his arms and armour, the horse hardly stirred. So, with her heart fairly hammering, Athadra did her best to imitate what she’d just witnessed.

She got as far as the boot in the stirrup before she recognized her first problem. “...Duncan?” She looked at her legs, which pressed on opposite sides of her robes. “Little advice?”

“Ah,” he said, and considered with a frown. He surveyed their surroundings, and nodded toward a small homestead across the bridge they still commanded. “Perhaps we can get you some proper riding clothes there.” He dismounted with a grunt and patted his horse’s neck. Athadra’s mount whinnied when she did likewise, but it didn’t seem displeased.

They led the horses across the field to the farmhouse. An old man with a hoe came to the door, eyeing the strangers suspiciously. Duncan showed both hands empty and halted a good distance away. “I am sorry to bother you, my friend,” he said by way of introduction. “We are travelers on our way to the King.”

“Done seen you with Arl Eamon, Maker bless ‘em,” the man said, still wary. Unlike the nobleman, the farmer’s eyes rested on Athadra more often than not.

“Of course. We mean no trouble. Might you have some clothes for my companion, or at least a good set of leggings? We have a long ride ahead of us, and more work once we arrive. I have good copper to change with you.”

“Might be I do, might be not. She’s a magicker, ain’t she?” The man cocked an eyebrow.

“Aye, she be,” Athadra shot back, meeting his gaze. “You got a problem trucking with a knife-eared mage?” Duncan coughed and shot her a glance, but she did not turn away.

The old man hesitated and leaned his hoe against the door frame. “Can you do a bit o’ mendin’?” The sneer slid from his face, replaced with worry. When Athadra nodded, so did he. “Right, then. You can tie up the horses on me porch and come in.”

Duncan took care of their new mounts while Athadra followed their host into the house. It was much smaller inside than it looked, cramped with old furniture that could well have been made where it was used. The man made no apology for the mess, and stopped at the end of the hall. “My Brenwyn took sick three nights back,” he said much more softly than he had before. “Don’t eat, hardly drinks a sip. Can you help her?”

Athadra swallowed hard, trying not to stare at the tears budding in his eyes. She nodded. “I will try.” The room was not much more than the bed and cobwebs, and an old woman lay in a heap of careworn blankets on the straw. She hardly noticed her visitors, and Athadra could hear a certain rattle in her breathing that told the mage her lungs were slowly filling up.

Athadra sat on the bed and spread her hands over the woman. Blue-green tendrils licked from her fingers, caressing over Brenwyn’s chest and belly, letting the mage feel about inside her. When she closed her eyes, Athadra could almost see the bumps and little nodules growing inside the old woman’s lungs. She frowned.

“Well?” The man said, a mixture of hope and impatience in his voice. Athadra pulled her hands back.

“She’s dying from the inside, and has been for a time.” She nearly winced at the dark cloud that swept over her host’s face. “I can...I can try to help, but whatever I do won’t last. In a week or in a year, she’ll get sick again, maybe somewhere else. But...” Her hesitation didn’t help the man’s composure, and he started weeping openly. “Anything I do will hurt her. There are...things growing in her lungs.” She didn’t want to give him too many details.

“Can’t ye get ‘em out? Make ‘em disappear?” His voice cracked, and he leaned back against the wall, hanging his head.

“Magic don’t work like that. I can’t just...take something away, put it somewhere else. If there is such a spell, they don’t teach it at the Circle. If you really want, I can try to heal her...but she might not be strong enough.” Athadra thought her husband might not be strong enough, either. “Or...”

The man looked up, his eyes red-rimmed. “Or?”

“I can take away her pain.”

They both jumped at the shaking, rattling coughs which took the woman named Brenwyn, and Athadra turned to her in time to see pink saliva running down her chin. She was trying to speak, but every time her lips parted she could only cough. A wizened, clawlike hand reached out to her husband. He took it up without hesitation, falling to one knee beside her.

“Can ye hear me, Bren?” He almost whispered. Anguish washed over his features when she nodded. “Do ye know what she means?” Another nod. A moment’s pause, and then, “Do ye want her to try and fix ye?” After what seemed like an hour, the woman shook her head. There were tears in her eyes as well.

Athadra felt sick. Brenwyn coughed once more, and squeezed her husband’s hand tightly. “Lo...love...you...” she managed, and that was enough to get the man’s chest to heaving. He sobbed so loudly that Athadra almost covered her ears, and professed his love almost as incoherently in return. The mage was about to retreat when she saw Duncan in the doorway; he shook his head firmly, and she found she could not rise.

After a time of the old woman patting the man’s bald pate, he seemed to collect himself. He drew up, still clutching Brenwyn’s hand. “Yer sure?” He challenged her again, swallowing hard. The nod came less reticently this time, and the woman’s face looked more obviously pained. “All...alright, Bren...” He leaned over, tears threatening all the time, and brushed a slow kiss across the old woman’s forehead. He took to his feet, never taking his eyes from her. “Alright,” he said again. “Ye can...can...”

Athadra waited to see if he could say anything else. She flexed her fingers and spread them out over Brenwyn’s torso once more. The woman’s gaze had gone slack again, as though she were already sleeping. A purplish orb swirled into being between the mage’s palms, and if she’d believed in the Maker, she might have asked His forgiveness. Instead she closed her eyes and sent the pulse of arcane energy directly into the old woman’s heart. Brenwyn’s mouth opened and she sucked in air like she were drowning. It trickled out in a low sigh, and by the time it was done, the light had gone from her eyes.

Athadra didn’t remember getting up; she didn’t remember bowling past Duncan and fleeing through the house. She found herself retching over the side of the old man’s porch, the old man whose name she’d never learned...the old man whose wife she’d just killed. Her empty stomach gave her nothing but dry heaves, which brought nickering from the horses tied so close. She didn’t weep, but she heard the wailing from inside the house, and it was enough to make her shake.

An hour before sunset, Duncan joined her on the porch, setting down her pack beside her. “That was very brave,” he said after a while. “You did what was necessary, Athadra. You do not have to revel in it...in fact, it’s best that you don’t. But you did not turn away, when you could have. Remember that.”

Athadra nodded, still numb. Slowly she regained her feet and heaved her pack onto her shoulders, and her face began to set. “What is his name?”

“Aethelbert,” Duncan supplied. “He had a son once, who wasn’t much better than you when he was a lad. You’ll find his breeches and tunic wrapped around some hardbread and cheese, when you’re ready.”

“If it’s all the same,” she said after a moment, “I’d like to walk for awhile.”

Duncan only nodded, and so they crested the last hill of Redcliffe with the sun casting long shadows, walking the horses behind them.


	3. Roughing It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athadra and Duncan continue their journey after Redcliffe to Ostagar, with the old Grey Warden teaching the mage a few new tricks along the way.

Duncan’s prediction proved true; they followed the river which fed Redcliffe’s waterfall and traced a tributary Eastward until the village was far enough behind them that they were reasonably assured of privacy. Athadra couldn’t contain her hunger, and ate the bread and cheese the old man, Aethelbert, had given in exchange for his wife’s peace. She did not speak of it and, thankfully, neither did Duncan.

Athadra splashed into the river with her robe on, in hopes that she could remove some of the dirt and sweat with which her travels had soiled the fabric. The water was chilled despite the warmth of the summer evening, and after a few moments she peeled off the robe and hung it on a low branch. She dug a grainy soapcake from the front of the pack Duncan had given her; she hadn’t had a proper bath in nearly a week, and so despite the cold, Athadra scrubbed every inch she could reach, taking care to soap over her thighs and belly.

When she was finished she didn’t feel quite clean, but Athadra climbed from the stream in the last gloaming of the evening. She could see Duncan’s silvery armour glinting in the moonlight nearby, and she wondered if he was watching her, but she forced the thought from her mind when a shudder took her. Instead she closed her eyes and collected a small layer of air about her. When her eyes opened the air twisted and whipped up into a wind, biting into her skin and scouring the water away.

Silently she cursed her aversion to primal magic as she dug into her pack for those breeches and tunic. They were a child’s clothes, really. She had to fix the breeches to her waist with a thong of leather tied through belt loops, and the leggings stopped halfway down her calves, but at least the tunic was long enough to cover her hips. Only once she’d dressed and dried her dirty robe did Duncan venture near.

“I’ve tied up the horses and pitched a pair of tents,” he said lightly. “How is the water?”

“Cold,” she supplied, shouldering her pack.

“There’s a rabbit hanging by the fire pit, as well as a flint, dagger, and some dry wood. If you wish us to eat tonight, I suggest put those things together creatively.” There was almost a smirk in his voice, but no hint of malice. He turned and began unbuckling his armour, and Athadra retreated to the clearing he’d prepared while she bathed.

An hour later, he returned to find her still trying to start the fire. “I got a spark...twice!” She said with a growl, striking the flint off of another stone and onto the piled branches. They weren’t even put into the fire pit. Duncan forced back a laugh and crouched beside her. His hair was still wet, and ran to the shoulders of his undertunic; it looked much shorter when he had it tied back. He’d put his armour at the edge of the clearing for the moment.

“I suppose it’s too much to hope that the Circle teach its charges to take care of themselves in the wild?”

“Wouldn’t help with their whole ‘apostates must die’ policy if renegade mages could live off the land, I guess,” she answered. “Acourse lots of mages can make sodding _ sparks_ ...” She sighed and threw the stones down.

Duncan shook his head, and in the half-light of the moon he showed her how to make a proper fire, first by shaving a bit of wood into the fire pit and gathering dry leaves, then building a small lean-to over the kindling from branches, and finally striking the flint against a small wedge of iron or steel.

“The flat end of a house knife can serve, if you lose the firesteel. If you just have a two-sided blade, you can improvise with the hilt...or your armour, if it’s some kind of steel.” He never touched anything as he instructed her, instead making her hands remember the movements. “You must be able to catch, kill, clean, and cook your own game eventually. We have many supplies at Ostagar, but the Wardens in Ferelden are usually not so well-provisioned.”

Duncan’s manner helped to soothe Athadra’s frustration, and soon she had the tinder smoldering. She waved a hand gently, sending little eddies of air over the newborn embers until they glowed hot and set the leaves aflame. Soon enough the circle of sticks were catching as well.

“Very good,” Duncan said with a nod. “Now you must skin our dinner.”

Athadra froze; she’d forgotten about the rabbit in her failed attempts to ignite the campfire. It still looked almost alive, strung up by its feet on a stake.

“You must take the skin and fur off, and then carefully remove the innards, so we can spit it and cook it through.” Duncan’s matter-of-fact tone didn’t change, which only made Athadra’s throat go dry. “You _ can_ do it.”

The mage breathed in a sigh and swallowed. She took up the dagger and cut the rabbit from its perch while Duncan fashioned a spit and fed some larger branches to their budding campfire. Athadra forced her eyes to remain open while she worked, and soon enough her hands were covered in blood and fur. The rabbit’s skin came off in pieces, making it useless, but when she was finished Duncan judged it an adequate job.

The meat tasted no more or less deliciously than the fowl she’d occasionally enjoyed at the Circle, or the fish which were much more common fare, and she realized that people had had to do similarly distasteful things to prepare each and every one of those meals. She and Duncan did not speak much during their supper or after it, and she was glad enough for a proper tent that she didn’t think to ask where he had procured it.

Her belly wasn’t full to bursting, but she didn’t go to sleep hungry. After a few hours of strange dreams, she woke up to a low-pitched scream coming from the other side of the fire. When she poked her head from her tent, she could see a shadow of Duncan’s arm swinging inside of his own. The yell sounded again, but she could see no one else in the gloam, and her thudding heart slowed. _He must be dreaming_ , she thought to herself. From the shape of the shadow, she judged that he’d put on his armour again before retiring, which meant he was likely armed as well.

That was more than enough to keep Athadra from trying to wake him. Instead she settled back into a more fitful sleep, occasionally punctuated by her companion until he rose just before dawn. He gave her a couple of hours’ grace until he called from outside her tent, and Athadra jerked awake again, an unseen force flapping the canvas walls around her. When she got her bearings, the mage climbed out the tent and followed Duncan’s instructions on breaking it down.

They broke their fasts from the dry foodstuffs in their packs. She asked the Warden a few questions about the order, but his answers were just as vague as the few scrolls and tomes she’d seen mention of them. “In time,” was his near-constant refrain whenever she pressed for details. “The history of the Wardens is rich, but our function is simple,” he said eventually.

“Killing darkspawn,” Athadra ventured. Even she knew that much.

Duncan nodded. “Killing darkspawn. Strangers may love us or hate us; kings may try to use us or disavow us. We fight to defend the world against the darkspawn scourge, by any means we have at our disposal.”

Athadra raised a brow. “Any means?”

“The choices we face in our duties are not always...scrutable to those who don’t remember the horrors of the Blights. Should you rise through the ranks here, you may have to make decisions that you cannot justify to civilians, even if they ultimately benefit.”

Athadra remembered the old woman, Brenwyn, and she came to understand Duncan’s approval of what she'd done. “What happens when one of those  _civilians_ tries to bring justice against us?”

Duncan hesitated for a moment. “That depends on the nature of the perceived crime, and the status of the people involved. I was able to rescue you from aiding a blood mage because the first enchanter and knight commander both knew the danger of the Blight, and of undermining the credibility of the Grey Wardens. Others...have not always been so understanding. You must learn to judge these things...in time.”

Athadra saw from his expression that she’d get nothing further from him about that, and so she continued eating in silence. As they finished their meal, he sheathed a small dagger and handed it to her. “I doubt we’ll come across any templars between here an Ostagar,” he said. “Wear this at your hip...so that people might not notice your  _walking stick_ so much.”

Athadra nodded; she felt a flash of annoyance at having to hide what she was, but she remembered just how nasty humans could be to mundane elves, much less mages such as she. Magic still frightened folk, though it had been over nine hundred years since the breakaway kingdom of Orlais had declared itself an empire in its own right, a successor to the Tevinter Imperium. The Emperor Drakon established the Chantry, in part to shackle mages and ensure the crimes of Tevinter’s magister lords would never again be repeated wherever Andraste’s Chant of Light held sway. Athadra took the knife and fixed its sheath to her hip without complaint.

Once the tents had been packed away, Duncan got Athadra to mount up on her horse and taught her the basics of riding. She was nervous at first, but hers was a steady beast, long used to much heavier and mouthier loads. Soon enough they were canting in the shadow of the Imperial Highway, the raised road built by the Tevinters to help connect the far-flung reaches of their empire at its height, heading East at an easy pace to keep the horses fresh for their delivery to the king.

The pair halted a little before dusk near where the Imperial Highway turned South, which marked a half-day’s ride from Ostagar, or so Duncan said.  She would have asked him why they didn’t press on to get there at midnight, but his purpose became clear soon enough; before she knew it, he had her pitching the tents, digging the pit, preparing the fire, and setting a series of snares in the woods. Under his instruction, she caught another rabbit and a pair of badgers in the hours after sunset.

“That was very good,” Duncan said, after they’d finished the last of the meat and berries from their packs.

“I wouldn’t’ve been able to do any of it without you here, though,” Athadra pointed out. “I still probably can’t...” She sighed and patted her belly; it hadn’t been this well-fed since before Jowan had fled the Circle Tower.

“When you get hungry enough, you’ll be surprised by what you can do.” The Grey Warden stifled a yawn and pushed another bunch of branches onto the fire, suggesting they turn in. Athadra went to sleep...not happy, exactly, but contented. She was able to sleep the whole night through, and woke feeling much better. Duncan found them an entryway to the Imperial Highway.

They made it to Ostagar while the sun was still peaking at their backs, only to be waylaid by King Cailan, resplendent in his gilded armour. Athadra had to avert her eyes.

“Ho, Duncan!” The monarch called with a smile. “I don’t remember you taking any horses from the stables...”

“Your Majesty,” Duncan said, honest surprise in his voice. He dismounted and bowed much more lowly than he had to Arl Eamon. “I didn’t expect...”

“A royal welcome?”

Duncan rose. “Indeed. Your uncle sends his regards,” he said, lifting the reins of his horse. “And he reminds you that Redcliffe’s forces can be mustered and marched here in less than a week.”

“Eamon just wants in on the glory,” Cailan said dismissively. “We’ve already won three battles with the fiends, and tomorrow’s should be no different. Though I suppose I must make a show of gratitude, once this is done.” He walked over, followed discretely by guards in much less fancy armour.

Athadra was still atop her horse, fairly frozen in place.  _The sodding King of Ferelden is right there!_ Her own voice screamed in her head. He looked much like the painting of his father, King Maric, which hung in the entryway of the Circle Tower.

“And I see you were successful in bringing in a new recruit,” he remarked, shielding his eyes from the sun as he looked up at the mounted elf. His very,  _very __blue_ eyes. “Are you from an alienage, friend?” Athadra’s jaw dropped when he reached a hand up. A moment later she blinked and took it, and the sodding _King_ of sodding _Ferelden_ helped her dismount from her horse. By the Void, he was  _tall_.

Athadra found her voice when she realized he didn’t even suspect that she was a mage; he must not have seen the staff hooked flush with the saddle. “I...no, your Majesty,” she said curtly. “From a farm, just outside Lothering.”

“That is good,” the King replied. “The nobles are so set in their ways. The Maker made humans and elves side by side; they shouldn’t be afraid to live side by side. After this business is done...” He sighed and broke off, addressing Duncan again. Something more about glory and tales; Athadra didn’t pay too much attention. She could still hardly believe that the king had noticed her, much less spoken with her. He seemed like something out of a tale himself.

In a daze, she only nodded when Duncan told her to get acquainted with the camp, find the mess, and track down Alistair. She almost didn’t notice him walking off without her, but he looked back and gave her a small nod, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Almost too late, she remembered her staff, and ran after the royal groom to retrieve it from her horse, mumbling curses just loudly enough for the patrolling guards to hear.


	4. Fancy Meeting You Here...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athadra gets her bearings in Ostagar and makes an unintended acquaintance. She also bumps into an old friend from her former life in Lothering, meets up with Alistair, and still hasn't managed to eat a decent meal.

Athadra marvelled at the scale of Ostagar’s architecture. She remembered reading about the Tower of Ishal, but she’d not believed it ever could have been the equal to the Circle Tower...yet here it stood, dominating the sky, so tall she had to look straight up to see its crumbling roof arches.

She paused on the long, solid bridge that spanned the canyon which Ostagar had been constructed to command, and she looked out to the South. Any attack from that direction would have to funnel through the narrows below her. It was truly a testament to Tevinter engineering that they could construct such a fortress at the edge of their continent-spanning empire. 

The mage continued on her way, brushing past a chatty guard posted at the Western end of the bridge with a cursory nod. She hid the shaking in her hands by shoving them in her pockets as she made her way through ancient pillars. She had to stop again when she caught sight of the camp proper; there simply seemed no end to it, with throngs of men and women marching in all directions, orders being barked, hammers and saws working to make weapons or improvements to the ancient fortifications. It was a lot to take in after the solitude of Lake Calenhad and the Imperial Highway.

Athadra’s reverie ended when she caught sight of a pair of templars guarding access to the mages’ tents; beyond, mages appeared to dance in a bluish haze, and she could smell the faint tinge of lyrium that told her they were in the Fade working powerful magic. She was curious as to what kind of Fade-work would help them win a battle, but she noticed one of the templars noticing  _her_ , and she hurried in the opposite direction.

She stopped short next to a pair of enormous tents that put her own recent accommodations to shame. Curiosity untainted by fear, Athadra neared one of them to see if she could get a peek inside.

“You approach the tent of Teyrn Loghain,” barked a short, dark-hued man standing by. A very well-armed man, at that. “State your business.” Athadra blanched and took a half-step back before she considered just how bad turning and running would look.

“I, uhh...I’ve got a message from the Grey Wardens...” she lied.

The guard raised an eyebrow. “..I _suppose_ the teyrn could see to you,” he admitted a bit grudgingly. He disappeared into the tent and a moment later a much larger man with dark, braided hair and slightly sunken eyes emerged in his place.

“Yes? Oh, you must be the new Grey Warden recruit. Cailan spoke quite highly of you. Quite impressive,” he said in a tone that suggested otherwise. “Are you aware that his father brought your order back to Ferelden?” Athadra nodded after a moment, and the teyrn huffed.  “I don’t suppose you’ll be riding into the thick of battle with your fellows, will you?”

“I hope not!” She answered before she could stop herself.

Teyrn Loghain raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. You may be smarter than you look.” He paused, likely to see what this message of hers was supposed to be. 

“Does the king think highly of the Wardens?” She asked, despite herself. She nearly flinched when Loghain rolled his eyes.

“Too highly, in my estimation. The Grey Wardens serve their purpose, but they aren’t as relevant as Cailan thinks.” He was testing her, she could tell, and his lip curled slightly when she didn’t rise to his bait. “You come from the bannorn, but you’ve been away from it for quite some time,” he observed, casually.

Athadra nodded. “North of Lothering,” she confirmed. “How did you know? Your Grace?” She added that last after a moment’s hesitation, remembering the appropriate address of someone in Loghain’s position just in time.

“The Night Elves had plenty of that sort...a few generations removed from the Dalish, not yet drawn into the attractive high walls of the cities.” He spoke of the unit he’d commanded in Ferelden’s guerrilla war of independence from Orlais, prized for their exceptional archery skills and nighttime senses. “Your accent tells me you’ve gotten a damned fine education, though...and that means you’ve probably got some Circle robes tucked away in that pack.” Athadra nearly blushed and swallowed. When she didn’t respond, the teyrn rasped a chuckle. “Good luck,” he said, and he might have even meant it.

Athadra took the opportunity to retreat, and spent the next several minutes worrying that everyone could tell that she was a mage...until an old woman wearing senior enchanter’s robes looked straight through her without blinking, and Athadra realized the woman saw just another ill-dressed elf scurrying about the camp.

She hurried along her way again when she noticed a seedy-looking man trying to catch the attentions of a woman soldier; she didn’t trust herself to keep her mouth shut should that type of attention fall on her.

Athadra thought she glimpsed Duncan at the top of a ramp at the Northern edge of the fortress; the man wore very similar blue-and-silver armour embossed with griffons on the shoulders and chest. She was momentarily confused when Duncan looked so pale...and tall...and  _blond_. And then she realized she must have stumbled onto the fabled Alistair, who was trading barbed comments with an enchanter.

The robed man huffed, his eyes contemptuous as they swept over her, and he stalked away. “You know, I just  _love_ how the Blight makes us all pull together,” the young man said with a sigh.

“I know exactly how you feel,” Athadra replied, remembering King Cailan’s subtle rivalry with his uncle.

Alistair jumped and looked at her, but he didn’t sneer, like many of the humans in the camp would have done. “I’m sorry...have we met? I don’t suppose you happen to be another mage?”

She lifted her ‘walking stick’, as Duncan had termed it. “Will that be a problem?”

“Not for me,” he said a little too hastily. “Oh, hang on a tic, I  _do_ recognize you. You’re the recruit Duncan mentioned back at the tower. You guys made it here right behind us.” He seemed impressed, and when he smiled, Athadra found herself imagining him with longer hair and bluer eyes...and then shoved that thought away. If the resemblance was  _that_ obvious, she didn’t want to annoy the man by pointing it out. “Are you hungry? I’m hungry. Let’s go get something to eat. As junior member of the order, it’s my job to get you your bearings until the Joining.”

“That...doesn’t make any sense, really,” Athadra pointed out. But she  _was_ hungry, and the large Grey Warden seemed welcoming enough, though she kept a tight grip on her staff, just in case her perception proved false. “Name’s Athadra. Where do we eat?”

Alistair chuckled. “Follow me.” He strode down the ramp, hooking a right past the camp’s quartermaster. Athadra was relieved to see the creepy man had disappeared.

“We made up time on the Imperial Highway,” she said, to make conversation. “Duncan got a triad of horses from the Arl of Redcliffe.”

“That would do it,” Alistair agreed. “Though all in all, I’d bet my recruits and I got here smelling better,” he said. “Have you met either of them yet?” When she shook her head, he continued. “Daveth is an... _object retriever_ we picked up in Denerim, and Ser Jory’s a knight  we got out of Highever. Speak of the magus!” He waved, and another large man returned his greeting. He didn’t seem to notice Athadra flinching at the childish taunt he’d used so offhandedly.

“Greetings, Alistair,” the man said stiffly. “I was just here for the Chant.” He tilted his head to the woman in sunburst robes who looked ready to deliver a sermon. “Is this...?”

“This is,” Alistair confirmed, looking to her...and actually expecting her to speak.

“Athadra,” she supplied, though she didn’t try to clasp Jory’s outstretched hand. He withdrew it and nodded amiably enough.

Alistair coughed a bit pointedly. “We were just heading for the mess. Would you like to join us?”

“No, thank you. I broke my fast rather too well this morning, I’m afraid.” Ser Jory shot a nervous glance over Alistair’s shoulder; Athadra turned, seeing the cots set up with invalids. More priests walked among the injured and dying, but she saw no mages attempting to heal them, and her brow drew down.

“Ahh, yes,” Alistair said with a nod. “Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find us...” He casually strode off, and Athadra had to trot to keep up with his pace.

“Why aren’t any mages trying to help those men?” Athadra asked as they passed into the soldiers’ section of camp. Colourful tents dotted the grounds like it was an Orlesian tourney, and one open-air tent seemed to be their destination.

“They have done, as best they could,” Alistair said. “The ones still lying there, though...they got darkspawn blood in them. There’s no antidote for that.”

Athadra nodded and thought for a moment. “But why don’t the Grey Wardens get sick from it? Surely you get injured fighting them...”

“Oh, all the time,” Alistair readily concurred. “We’re immune, though...in a way, at least. I can’t tell you much more until after the Joining, though, honestly.”

She halted, and he reluctantly turned to face her. “What is this  _Joining_ about? That’s twice you mentioned it, and I think Duncan said something about it before he disappeared.”

Alistair sighed. “It’s...complicated. And a big secret for civilians.”

“Which I still am,” Athadra surmised. “Until after the Joining.”

Alistair snapped his fingers, which was impressive, considering how thick his armoured gloves were. “Right. But to allay the obvious question, no, we couldn’t put all those poor sods back there through the Joining. There’s no demobilizing from the Wardens...no leaves of absence. When this Blight is over, Maker willing soon, we’ll be the ones chasing the darkspawn back to the Deep Roads while the lucky ones around us go home and get fat and raise their grandchildren.” He stopped suddenly and swallowed, obviously uncomfortable.

“That...sounded like Duncan talking,” she pointed out.

“It might have been a paraphrase?” He offered with a half-cocked smile.

Athadra just shook her head and turned to keep going, when she ran headlong into someone crossing her path. Another very big someone, as it turned out, whose standard-issue armour rebuffed her as easily as a gentle breeze. “Watch it,” the man said, though he caught her by the shoulders just before she fell back.

Athadra’s heart started pounding, and she could feel her magic welling within her; the air around her staff began swirling slowly. She caught sight of the soldier’s face and blinked in confusion, her nerves easing. She _ knew_ him, she realized, though he didn’t seem to recognize her. As he turned to go, she placed him in her memory. “Knifey...?”

Alistair coughed to himself, but the soldier paused and gave her another look. Then it dawned on him, and he grinned. “Adra!” He scooped her up into a hug so tight that she dropped her staff; she had to kick at his shins get him to let her go, though not before she returned the embrace.

“Maker, I haven’t seen you since...” And then his smile faded as he set her down. “Are you...on the run, Adra?” He glanced around, looking concerned, and perhaps even a bit scared.

Alistair came to her rescue nicely. “If an apostate’s first thought is to run into the middle of a Chantry-observing army, I’d have to wonder how they’d managed to escape in the first place. I’m Alistair, soon to be the no-longer-most junior Grey Warden in Ferelden.” He sniffed and wiped away an imaginary tear. “It’ll be quite an honour to give up the mantle at long last...”

Athadra picked up her staff and caught her breath, raising an eyebrow at the Grey Warden.

“So you’re joining the Grey Wardens?” Her acquaintance mused. “Was the Circle  _that_ bad?”

Athadra punched him harder than she’d meant to, and had to shake the stinging off of her knuckles. “Yes it were, thank you very much...and all thanks to you and that sodding sister of yours.”

Alistair coughed again. “It looks like I’m at a disadvantage, here. You both know me, but I only know one of you...”

“Sorry!” Athadra exclaimed, taking a step back from both of them. “Alistair, this is Carver. I knew him and his family in Lothering, before I got caught.”

Carver chuckled, evidently ill at ease. “I, uh...might have played a bit of a part in that,” he said sheepishly.

“Might have?” She hit him in the chest again with an open palm, and didn’t notice Alistair’s eyes widen when Carver staggered back. “You and Beth ran off and left me! How were I supposed to know the boy’s father were a templar, anyway?”

Carver put up his arms and cowered, trying to stave off another attack. “I tried writing to you, honest, but Father said it wouldn’t’ve gotten through...” He straightened and shook his head. “I’m really sorry, Adra. We didn’t know, either...I promise, we didn’t. And you look like you’ve done well for yourself. It’s a big honour, joining the Wardens.” His smile told her he  _almost_ believed it, too.

Athadra sighed; except for the last week, her stay at the Circle had been a bit lonely, but not unpleasant. And she’d certainly learned far more than her parents could have taught her...though seeing Carver again made her miss her family. “How is Mister Hawke, anyway?”

She knew that was the wrong question before Carver opened his mouth. “Dead,” the soldier said after a moment. “Three years come Kingsway.”

Silence reigned until Alistair broke it. “Sorry to hear that. I don’t mean to interrupt this  _rendez-vous_ , but I was just taking Athadra to get some grub. Do you want to come along?” A strange gurgling told them all that Alistair’s desire wasn’t exactly disinterested.

“Just came from the mess,” Carver said apologetically. “But hey, you and I should catch up after the next battle, Adra. Rumour has it, it’s tomorrow evening...though how they know when the darkspawn will show up is a mystery to me.”

Alistair butted in. “You’re welcome,” was all he said, with a smug smile on his face.

Carver shook his head. “I’ll look you up in a couple of days; the Wardens aren’t hard to find.” He pointed to the distinctive armour Alistair wore. “Maybe once this is all over, you can come back to Lothering and visit.”

Athadra nodded. “I...think I’d like that,” she said at last, her stomach tight...and not simply from hunger. She felt like asking him about her mother and father, but she imagined they’d not have been too pleased about his role in her abduction. “I’ll keep an eye out once the next fight’s done. Try not to die, knifey.”

Carver clapped a fist to his chest in salute and walked off, leaving the mage and the Warden to continue their journey to find food.

“Well, he was a bit strange, wasn’t he?” Alistair asked. Athadra only chuckled, refusing yet again to point out the obvious.


	5. Meet The Neighbours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athadra starts coming to grips with her new 'family', and gets to meet a few of the ragged band of Fereldan Wardens. She also learns that drinking a goblet full of darkspawn blood might have some negative consequences, and gets her first mission from Duncan.

An awful lot had changed in the past day, Athadra reflected as she looked up into the canvas of a tent. Evidently Alistair hadn’t shared her opinion of  _mercy_ , either for the starving prisoner whose key she’d taken or for the wounded soldier in the Korcari Wilds whose eyes were already turning milky from the darkspawn taint. He’d complained both times she’d used the dagger Duncan had given her to show those men kindness, and then had hardly spoken to her until they’d come back from the Wilds with three vials of darkspawn blood and a hard-won set of old treaties the Fereldan Wardens had evidently forgotten since the last Blight. She hadn’t seen fit to mention to Duncan that they’d retrieved them from _Asha'bellanar_ ,  whom Athadra had learned of from her grandad’s stories; they’d been lucky enough to escape the old woman with their lives, despite Alistair’s best attempts to antagonize her with his snarks.

Now Daveth and Jory both lay cooling in a ditch, and Athadra had darkspawn blood washing through her veins. Despite her displeasure at discovering the shifty man who couldn’t keep his eyes to himself was to be her fellow Grey Warden, she still felt sad that the pickpocket was dead--at least he’d had the courage to face his fate and drink from the Joining chalice, even if it had killed him. Ser Jory had merely cowered behind his blade, blubbering, until Duncan had no choice but to dispatch him.

When she’d taken the cup she’d downed the lot of what remained--two swallows’ worth of the tainted blood, shot through with lyrium and something far more insidious than either--and she’d woken up twelve hours later, screaming her lungs out, with visions of a gnarled dragon spitting purple flame over a twisted horde of monsters haunting the edges of her awareness. She lay there for quite some time, listening to the sounds of the camp awakening around them.

Eventually Athadra stirred, and noticed that an odd set of clothes had been lain out beside her--they looked very much like the armour Duncan and Alistair wore, but were much lighter. Curious, she put on the undertunic and pants, before slipping into the dark leather one-piece; it had leggings but no arms, instead strapping over her shoulders. Eventually she figured out how to put on the high-collared overmantle, which was blue-and-silver and covered her arms and shoulders. When she stood, she realized that it looked like robes that had been split up the sides to her hips, which would let her move and ride much more freely than any Circle robes ever could. When she closed her eyes, Athadra could even feel the subtle power of the cloth tickling her skin, just like the dirty robes she’d shorn days before.

Finally she dragged on the gloves and boots, each sporting griffons on the joints, and fixed the thick leather belt around her waist to tie the whole thing together. The belt had a pair of daggers, one at each hip. She couldn’t find her walking stick, which worried her until she shifted the blanket that had moved during her dressing, and uncovered a finely-carved stave which practically sang when she took it up.

“You clean up rather well,” Alistair said by way of greeting when she emerged from her tent, blinking in the early afternoon sun. They stood in the midst of the Grey Warden ‘quarter’, which consisted of about a half-dozen stained tents of varying size and states of repair. “Did you have bad dreams? I had  _terrible _ dreams after my Joining.”

Athadra raised an eyebrow. “We speaking again,  _templar_?” She hadn’t been happy about finding  that out, either.

Alistair threw up his hands. “Hey, now...I told you, I never actually _ became_ a templar. Duncan saved me from all that. Just like he saved you from...you know.” He sighed and tried to change the subject. “I realized that you were right...about the bastard in the Wilds, anyhow. I still don’t like that you killed the deserter.”

“We’ll have to agree to part ways on that one,” was all she said in response, and shrugged. “You really do think I look okay?” She shrugged and turned slowly, and when she saw him look at her, she didn’t see him  _looking_ at her...not like  _that_ , anyway, and she found she couldn’t stay upset with him, either.

“You look good, Athadra. Like you belong in those robes. Do they fit?” She nodded and he clapped her on the shoulder. “Great. First Warden secret I can let you in on...other than the whole drinking-darkspawn-blood thing, anyway...is that you’ll be eating like a mabari from now on. Let’s get you some breakfast. Well, lunch. Me, too.”

Athadra could feel her belly protesting its own emptiness already, so she nodded, and they set off back to the mess. The morning mists had thankfully burnt off, but aside from the faint hammering coming from all corners, the mood seemed too somber for noise. “Do you think everyone knows about tonight?”

Alistair nodded. “Keeping that kind of secret is really hard in an army. You’ve got friends you want to warn, and so have they, and then...everyone finds out, much quicker than you’d think.” He held up a fist in salute, and Athadra noticed a rather mismatched pair emerging from a tent at the edge of the row. One was an enormous man, bigger than Alistair, with a shiny-bald head and a forest-thick beard. The other was a slender Dalish woman with long ears which held many golden rings. Her face sported the wild tattoos of her people, and she wore a bow slung across her back.

“Gregor!” Alistair called. “Looks like you’re getting a late start, too. Sleep well?”

The large man mumbled something in Andish that Athadra couldn’t quite pick up, but his companion’s bright green-and-yellow eyes lit up when she noticed the mage. “ _ Andaran atish’an _ ,” the archer said with a small bow.

“ _ Aneth ara _ ,” Athadra replied, surprising herself by remembering her grandad’s lesson in the call-and-response greeting. The other elf seemed surprised as well, but then again, so did Alistair and the big man called Gregor.

“Duncan didn’t tell me his new pet was Dalish,” the woman remarked. “Or that she was a  _ she_ ,” she said with a wink.

“Got the Dales in me,” Athadra replied, “but I grew up on a farm.” She was _ really_ getting tired of explaining that--almost like arriving at the Circle all over again, all those years before.

“You know,” Alistair interjected, “there’ve never been many women in the Grey Wardens. You and Tarimel are the only female Wardens in all of Ferelden, in fact. I wonder why that is?”

A shadow passed quickly over the older elf’s features, too quickly for Alistair to catch, though Athadra noticed. “How’s about you stop thinkin’ of me as a woman, Ser Shemlen? ‘Less you want to get real acquainted with Gregor’s beards, that is...” The large man hefted the double-bearded axe he carried at his shoulder for emphasis, and Athadra couldn’t hold back her laugh when Alistair blanched just a bit.

“What...yes...err, I mean, of course. Sorry!” He chuckled nervously. “Want to go grab some grub?” After general assent, the four meandered back to the mess. The slop wasn’t much improved from the previous afternoon, but it was warm and filled their stomachs. The cooks bantered with them, complaining that the fourteen Wardens would eat as much as an entire legion of _ chevaliers_, including the horses...and that Gregor would have the taps running dry by the battle’s start. The four spent hours bantering with the cooks, passing soldiers, and one another...and, eventually, Athadra felt a tension start to leave her. She began to feel  _grateful_ that Duncan had been there for her, and not just for rescuing her from the Circle Tower. She began to ease into the idea of being a Grey Warden for its own sake.

Eventually, a well-muscled Warden with curled, greying hair approached the bench. Alistair was just declining a ‘rematch’ of a drinking contest he’d evidently lost badly to the Ander Warden when the stranger grunted, and all three of the more experienced Wardens snapped to attention. The man nodded grimly, as though he were facing the whole horde of darkspawn on his own and had never learned the concept of retreat. “The Commander says that Alistair and the junior Warden are to meet him near the circle where the Joining was observed.”

“Yes, Warden Richu,” replied Alistair seriously. The amiable mood had evaporated from the table all at once, and Athadra could tell it would not return until the man’s instructions were carried out, if at all. The mage and the templar got up from the bench and said their farewells under Richu’s heavy gaze; Athadra was relieved when he did not follow.

“What was  _his_ problem?” She wondered aloud as soon as she judged him out of earshot.

“He’s from Nevarra,” Alistair said, as though that were explanation enough. When Athadra elbowed him he sighed. “He’s been a Warden a long time...as long as Duncan, maybe longer. I’m not sure. He’s certain he got passed up for Warden Commander because Duncan was good friends with King Maric.”

“And that makes him...what, jealous?” Athadra mused. Her eye caught on a Chantry priest’s robes, and the dour-looking woman actually  _spat_ when she saw Athadra’s stave. The mage could hardly repress an urge to stick out her tongue.

Alistair shook his head. “Not jealous, really...but vigilant. Very officious. The man’s damned good at killing darkspawn, don’t get me wrong. But he seems intent on outrunning his Calling just so he can be Warden Commander after Duncan’s gone.”

Athadra halted again, and it took Alistair a few steps to notice. When he turned around he looked apprehensive. “Calling?” Was all Athadra could ask, crossing her gloved forearms.

“I...shouldn’t have mentioned that. Most of us don’t find out for awhile...I know I only found out about a month ago, really. But...you’re not going to let it go now that I’ve let it slip.” When she shook her head, he took a breath. “Your nightmares last night weren’t just dreams. Remember back in the wilds, when I told you that I could sense the darkspawn?” She nodded, curious. “You will soon, too. They’re...part of us, now. The Joining doesn’t  _prevent_ us from getting tainted...it taints us in the first place, and makes the taint draw out before it takes us.”

Athadra’s brows shot up. “For how long?”

Alistair sucked air between his teeth. “Thirty years, give or take. No one makes it much past fifty. And after your time runs out, the taint starts to take over...just like it does for civilians. Rather than lose our minds to the poison, Grey Wardens go on the Calling--basically, a final battle, mostly in the Deep Roads, going out swinging against as many darkspawn as your blades or arrows can fell.”

Athadra swallowed, hard. But the more she thought about it, the less pressing it seemed. “How many soldiers make it to fifty, anyhow? How many Wardens, for that matter?” She pointed out, mostly to herself. “I’ll be lucky to make it through tonight alive,” she realized, perhaps for the first time.

“And even when you  do  make it,” Alistair said, “tomorrow will have more of the same. And the next day. That’s just what I said when I found out, too. Isn’t that quite a coincidence?” His half-cocked smile was meant to put her at ease, she knew, but Athadra honestly felt content after her initial spasm of panic. She nodded and continued on, and Alistair fell in beside her.

“Is there anything  _else_ I should know about?” She asked, just as Duncan was coming into view.

Alistair shrugged enough to jostle his armour. “There are some things, but you don’t have to worry about them today. Just focus on living one day at a time, and you’ll pick up what you need as you go along.”

Athadra was about to respond when Duncan noticed them and broke off his conversation with a man nearly as small as she was; he was dressed in greens and browns, but Athadra was almost certain he was another Warden, though she could not say why. He saluted Duncan and strode away, slipping from her notice with unsettling ease. “Both the king’s scouts and ours have confirmed that the darkspawn are massing, as we’d suspected,” Duncan told them as soon as they neared. He did not look nearly as pleased as Cailan had at the prospect.

“The king seems very sure of victory,” Athadra suggested, recalling the excited man from the day before. “Do you think he’s mistaken?”

Duncan shifted a bit. “What King Cailan said is true...we’ve won many battles,” he admitted. “But the horde grows larger with each passing hour, while our own reinforcements are held in reserve. By now, they look to outnumber us.”

“Why isn’t he mobilizing the reserves?” Alistair wondered, before Athadra could ask that very same question.

“In a word,” said Duncan, “ _Orlais_.  Perhaps on my advice, he’s invited the Orlesian Wardens here to assist us, and they wish to bring some  _chevaliers_ along with them.” Athadra’s brow drew down, but she did not respond. She knew that such an invitation would not come without risks, both from Orlais and from the Fereldan nobility. “I suspect that Teyrn Loghain had a hand in convincing him to save Arl Eamon’s strength, in case the  _chevaliers_ do not deign to leave once the Blight is done.”

Alistair looked around. “I haven’t seen any chevaliers, though,” he observed. Athadra snickered at his Fereldan pronunciation of the Orlesian word. “Or any Orlesian Wardens, for that matter.” He didn’t seem to have any wit to share in Duncan’s presence, Athadra noticed.

Duncan’s lips quirked in something like a smile. “They might be getting held up at the border, or Empress Celine might be weighing her options before allowing her _ chevaliers_ to mobilize. I do know that King Cailan has requested both of you be present at his round table with the teyrn and his other advisers later this afternoon. You must impress upon all of them the tenuousness of our immediate position, and the need for more Grey Wardens and more regular troops.” His dark eyes rested on Alistair a half-second longer than they had on Athadra, but she marked it off as the difference in their experience.

Alistair nodded, and Athadra found herself doing the same. “We will try,” she said, and meant it. She still wasn’t sure how this came to be _her_ fight, exactly, but fight she would, if it meant staying out of the Circle Tower...or worse. Alistair nodded as well.

“Very well,” Duncan allowed. “The meeting will happen near here, in half an hour. The darkspawn are very unlikely to attack until an hour after sunset, which should give a good three hours for the meeting to resolve and the orders to trickle through the command. I will be waiting by the bonfire with the others.” He clapped one hand to his breast in the common soldier’s salute, and Alistair did the same. Athadra gave it a try, too, and found the motion fit her well. The two junior Wardens stalked off into what might once have been a great hall, but now stood overgrown in the open air like much of the rest of the fortress, to face the people of import.


	6. Chequers, Not Chess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athadra performs her first duty as a full-fledged Grey Warden, and gets saddled with another in the process. She also manages to garner a promise from Teyrn Loghain she might come to regret, and shares a few moments with the Wardens before the battle.

Loghain and the king were already standing at the table when the pair of Wardens arrived, surrounded by iron-clad guards; the teyrn looked sullen and bored, while Cailan was impetuous. “...is  _not_ a fool notion,” the monarch nearly spat. “And you will remember who is king.” Loghain huffed and caught sight of the interlopers, indicating their presence to the younger man.

“Ahh,” the king said when he turned, his face brightening. “I hear congratulations are in order for the newest Grey Warden. I’m sorry that I never caught your name before.”

“Athadra, Your Majesty,” she said after a moment. She wondered if he knew about Daveth and Jory, but decided not to mention it.

The king nodded. “Well then, Athadra, I’m sure you’ll be an indispensable addition to the Grey Wardens’ ranks.” He turned to the teyrn. “Are we ready to begin officially, or shall we dance across the same dusty rug once more?”

Loghain rolled his eyes. “The Grand Cleric and her pet mage are coming now,” he observed. Athadra turned, and saw that he spoke of Uldred, a bald-headed Senior Enchanter of some renown back in the Circle. She supposed he must be Irving’s representative on the battlefield, to be privy to the king’s council. She also couldn’t help but notice a pair of templars skulking behind them, full helmets shielding their faces in steel and their eyes in shadow.

“Now we’re ready,” the king said with a nod, and no one disputed him. “Loghain, speak your strategy.” Athadra’s eyes widened momentarily, but she considered it the better part of valour to refrain from pointing out that the King of Ferelden didn’t seem to know the difference between _strategy_ and _battle tactics_.

“We will form a line with three ranks, arranged at the mouth of the canyon to secure our flanks,” he said, poring over the tattered map that spread across the table. Athadra looked at Alistair, who looked back at her in a mild panic; evidently he’d be no help speaking up. She silently cursed as the teyrn continued. “The Senior Enchanter will place support mages behind, with a few on the canyon’s walls...” She coughed to herself, and Loghain fixed her with a stare that said he would like nothing more than to run her through very slowly with his sword. 

“Duncan’s reports have the horde at an advantage in numbers,” she pointed out. “He says that we need more men...and more Wardens. Urgently.”

Cailan nodded. “You see? The Orlesian Wardens are in Jader, less than a day’s march from Gherlen’s Pass. When we beat the darkspawn back tonight, I’ll send word immediately to let them through.”

“Maric and I drove those bastards out!” Loghain said too loudly, and pounded his mailed fist on the table for emphasis. “We can beat this raid without the Orlesians, dammit. Let me think.” Everyone remained silent for several minutes as Loghain studied the map; Athadra peeked as well, and she traced a finger over a line East of the canyon.

“Is this a sheer cliff?” She mused, absorbed by the contours.

Loghain looked ready to spit daggers, but a second look had him pausing. “No...” he said eventually. “It is heavily wooded, nearly impossible to climb up, but...have we the cavalry...?” The two contemplated the map for some time yet in silence. Athadra’s heart pounded and she could practically see the calculations churning behind Loghain’s eyes. Eventually he nodded. “Right. We will split the army into two and form our main lines well inside the canyon. I will conceal the smaller force in the wood, and when the horde is engaged, we will sweep down and pen them in.”

“But how will you know?” Athadra pointed out. “It doesn’t look like there’s a clear line of sight from the trees.”

Loghain’s finger landed heavily on the Tower of Ishal. “A few of my men have repurposed the tower as a barracks, here. If Cailan is still intent on leading the charge in the valley, his men can give a signal for my lookouts to light the beacon.” He frowned, half-convinced the plan might work.

“Your Grace, the tower and its beacon are unnecessary,” Uldred said, speaking up for the first time. He looked more than a little exasperated. “I can--”

The Grand Cleric laughed. “We will not trust our lives to your spells,  _ mage _ . Save them for the darkspawn.” The look she gave him held such venom Athadra almost recoiled in sympathy.

Loghain looked even grimmer than normal for an instant, but he nodded. “Very well. We will light the beacon as planned. It shouldn't be a dangerous task, but it  _ is _ vital.”

“Then we shall send the best,” King Cailan interjected. “Send Alistair and Athadra to see that it’s done, since they helped with the plan.” His expression did not leave room to argue. “I cannot wait for that moment; the King of Ferelden standing with the Grey Wardens against a tainted god. Glorious.”

“Indeed, Cailan. A glorious moment for us all.” The disgust in the teyrn’s voice could hardly be less concealed. They hashed the details out; whose men would be in the canyon and whose would fall under Loghain’s command, where the priests and mages would be stationed, how many men to keep in the tower. Alistair’s only contribution was assuring King Cailan that all of the wardens--save the pair present, of course--would be at his side when the hammer fell, though he didn’t explain why that was so necessary, that the darkspawn would sense them in the ambush. Once that was done the king turned heel and marched back toward the tents, signalling the end of the meeting. It would fall to Loghain to see the appropriate orders issued, but he did not seem to mind.

“Mage,” Loghain barked suddenly. “Hold a moment.” Athadra wasn’t certain if he spoke of her or Uldred; neither was the Senior Enchanter, evidently. They both hung back, and under the teyrn’s glare Alistair, the Grand Cleric, and the templars all retreated. The teyrn turned first to Uldred. “You should know that I appreciate your offer. Once this battle is done, Cailan and I must have a long talk about the proper uses of magic, and of mages. I would have you be there when that happens.” He looked directly into Uldred’s eyes, and the man stared back without flinching. “You will not be unwelcome in my ranks tonight.” A nod from the teyrn dismissed him.

Athadra turned to go, only to have Loghain’s heavy hand rest on her shoulder. “Time is of the essence, girl,” he told her. “If you fail the king, I will hunt you down to the very end of Tevinter to see you pay.” She felt her throat go dry under his cold blue eyes, and nodded to herself, hoping to show the same courage Uldred had a moment before.

“I will do my best.” The young mage could offer nothing else. Loghain released her and turned back to his map, worrying over a curled corner, and she took her leave. Sweat beaded on her brow in the late-afternoon sun, though she felt no discomfort from her heavy armour-come-robes.

Alistair fell in beside her and they made their way through the grounds. “So what did Teyrn Loghain have to say?”

“Promised to gut me if the beacon didn’t get lit for him,” Athadra said with a wry twist of her lips, and she didn’t down the man’s utter sincerity. From what she knew of him, he was entirely devoted to King Maric, and seemed to regard Cailan as a second son as much as the ruler of Ferelden.

“Charming,” Alistair groaned, and they spoke no further until they approached the big bonfire Duncan had got going, despite the heat of the day. It was likely to burn brightly until sunrise, and Athadra supposed it would be a welcome landmark for the returning warriors. The Warden Commander had gathered the totality of his forces beside the fire; they made fourteen, twelve human men and two elven women. She was surprised at first to see that most were lithe and wiry, adept at sneaking and scouting. She did not have long to contemplate the observation, however.

“Have you a good word from the king?” Duncan asked, his dark eyes falling on Alistair.

The younger man shifted uncomfortably and glanced at Athadra, but she shrugged, content to be as silent as he’d been during the round table. “He’s going to call up our Orlesian comrades come the dawn, or so he says. Apparently they’re in Jader, waiting for permission to cross the mountains. Meantime, Loghain is going to stage an ambush once the bulk of the horde is committed in the canyon. He’s having Athadra and me hold the torch over the signal fire in the Tower of Ishal when the time comes, at the king’s suggestion.” Alistair seemed discomfited by the turn of events.

“Will the king be in the valley?” Duncan’s gaze turned to Athadra. She nodded, and saw a shadow pass over the faces of the Wardens as they looked at one another.

“Senior Enchanter Uldred offered to send up the signal himself,” Athadra pointed out, “but the Grand Cleric refused to allow him.” She thought that refusal foolish, but could not judge the mood of the rest of the Wardens; she had no reason to suspect them to be any more amenable to mages’ help than anyone else.

A Warden that Athadra hadn’t yet met spoke up. He was the only true warrior besides Alistair, Gregor, and Richu, and carried a two-handed greatsword at his back. “We should all stay together,” he said. “We are yours to command, Duncan. Not King Cailan’s, Andraste preserve him.” A murmuring of general assent passed around the circle, and even Athadra found herself agreeing in principle, even if she wasn’t thrilled about seeing the thick of combat.

“I agree,” Richu said quickly. “Commander, you are within your rights to deny the request.”

“Even so,” Duncan said evenly. “We enjoy good terms with the king, and it’s my prerogative that we maintain them. We will all have time to welcome Athadra properly in the weeks to come. Right now we must focus on the task at hand.” His tone had not changed, but his audience had grown silent; there could be no doubt who held command amongst this cohort. “Good,” Duncan said at last, half to himself. “Alistair, you and Athadra will head to the tower in an hour’s time to make certain all is ready. Watch for Tarimel’s signal.” 

The elven archer nodded solemnly. “I will shoot an ice arrow barrage onto the bridge,” she said. “The stone should freeze noticeably enough in the torchlight.”

“Can we join the battle afterward?” Alistair asked, as eager as Athadra was nervous.

Duncan hesitated. “Perhaps. You may need to take command of the tower’s forces as a reserve, to help keep the fighting from spilling North. Hopefully that will not be necessary. You still have the treaties?” When Alistair patted his breastplate, Duncan nodded. “Good. See that you keep them safe; we’ll almost certainly need them if a decisive blow is not struck today. We may even need to consider retreat.”

“And if King Cailan won’t consider that?” Alistair wondered.

Duncan did not hesitate. “Then we will retreat without him. All the way to Jader, if need be.” Several more solemn nods passed around. “Ferelden is my home as well as yours, Alistair. I do not wish to see it consumed by the darkspawn any more than you to. So let us hope that that isn’t necessary.”

Athadra’s brow drew down. “And what if the Archdemon makes an appearance?”

“Then you thank the Maker you are not in the gyre with us,  _ kleines Maedchen _ ,” Gregor said affectionately in his thick Andish accent. The appellation threatened to bring a smile to her lips.

Duncan nodded. “Alright, everyone. Make yourselves ready, and meet back here in an hour. Maker willing, we will return on the morrow.” Athadra saw each of her companions bow their heads in unison, even Duncan, and they all offered their silent prayers to the Maker or to His Bride, Andraste. She did not, for she had no prayers to give and no faith that they would be heard even if she had, but she remained silent for her fellows. Finally Duncan lifted his head and took a breath, and when he spoke, everyone else fell in with him. “ _In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, sacrifice._ ” Athadra had made sure to memorize the Grey Warden words earlier, when she broke her fast with a few of her fellows.  


After another long moment, the party broke up; Gregor and Tarimel strode away together, but the other men went in all directions. Duncan seemed content to remain by his fire, and turned to look into the flames. At Alistair’s insistence she turned and sought out the now-familiar mess again, to give her a full belly before the battle was to begin.


	7. The Cost of Living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The newest Fereldan Wardens have run into a spot of trouble in the mission King Cailan bade them, while the plan Athadra helped to craft bears a different sort of fruit than she'd ever intended. Now Athadra and Alistair face nearly impossible odds, but have found unexpected allies in the Wilds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first chapter to earn the story's 'Graphic Depictions of Violence' warning, and there are a few more explicit non-consensual references.

The room around her was a broken mess, and she knew she needed to move, to run as far and as fast as her feet could possibly carry her. Every instinct she had told her to crawl back to the door, climb down the Tower of Ishal, and get as far away from Ostagar as she could manage. Maybe to Tevinter. Maybe even to far Seheron, ruled by the heretical Qunari. She remembered seeing a picture of one such creature in a book, once, about the last Exalted March. Massive man-like beasts with horned heads and copper-bronze skin...who looked surprisingly like the monster that was chasing after Alistair at the edge of her vision. Alistair had named it an  _ ogre_, and then they had all screamed for their lives.

But Athadra could not run; she could hardly breathe. She’d lost sight of her stave sometime between when the ogre had picked her up and when she had landed amongst a stack of fresh barrels. She had no idea how long the ensuing blackness had lasted, but when she looked around, she saw that both of Loghain’s men were dead; men who’d fought with them against heavy resistance every step of the way, even before they’d entered the tower itself. Good men, with lives and to get back to once their king’s  _ glorious moment _ had finished.

Now one was short a head, and the other had blood seeping from empty sockets where his arms used to be. Their blood covered half the floor, helped along by Alistair as he dodged and weaved and rolled to avoid the giant’s massive arms. “Little help here!” he called desperately, taking a glancing blow across his shield and slicing the ogre’s arm. If anything, that simply made the beast angrier.

Athadra tried her best to heal herself, though she could tell she’d broken a rib, and would probably need it re-broken to set properly. And then she laughed out loud, as painful as that was, because she knew she would die here. With that certainty came a kind of power. She regained her feet and laughed again, loud enough to draw the ogre’s attention. It turned slowly; when Alistair tried another swipe with his sword, it brushed him aside as easily as it had done to her before. Athadra had used up all of her fear on the long climb up to the top of the tower, facing twisted horrors which echoed the forms of men and dwarves, and she had none left to spare for this monstrosity

“Come and get me,” she breathed to herself, feeling arcane energy welling within her. The monster obliged, crouching down and pointing its blood-soaked horns in her direction. Just as it kicked off she threw out her hands and the air between them thickened enough to slow the beast’s charge. She jumped and rolled just in time to avoid getting skewered, and she saw that the ogre’s horns had embedded into the tower’s thick walls. Quickly she hurried over to Alistair’s side; he’d crumpled against the wall and was currently trying to recite an incoherent limerick about his mother and a frog. Athadra tried healing him, but he was more addled than injured, and didn’t respond even when she slapped him across the face.

Meanwhile, the ogre had managed to extricate itself, and so Athadra ran oblong across its line of sight to draw it away from the other Grey Warden. She was going to die, she reckoned, but she hoped she could spare Alistair. She laughed out loud again, this time at the irony of a  _ mage _ saving a  _ templar_. She looked frantically for her stave; that last casting had taken most of her energy, and she needed the magical tool to focus what was left if she had any hope of bringing this beast down.

This time the ogre was content to lumber toward her, but with its enormous legs and long arms, she still had to sprint to keep out of reach. When she slipped on the pool of blood, she thought that she would meet her end...but as she fell, she felt the hilt of one of her daggers press into her side, and she suddenly remembered the magic lessons she’d learned before she’d ever even known about the Circle; the magic her grandad had taught her, to help keep her safe and alive in a world hostile to magic.

She unsheathed the daggers and let out a pained breath, channeling the last of her mana into her muscles. The ogre was on top of her now, but it hesitated; she could see that Alistair had regained his wits and was throwing whatever he could find at the beast.  _ Sodding fool_, she thought, but she felt a flutter of relief when the ogre turned from her. Then she saw her opening; with her magic-enhanced strength, she leapt from the floor and sank both daggers into the ogre’s back. Without stopping to think, she wrenched one dagger out and replaced it higher, and then the other. Each time the metal resisted mightily and made a horrendous  _ squelching_, and the opened wounds fountained black ichor all over her. She kept climbing, though, and in a matter of seconds her blades were sinking into the base of the beast’s neck. This time the blood did not wait, and sprayed past the blades, showering her face and hair in great gouts.

Athadra was laughing again, and then choking on the river of blood, but she held on. She couldn’t see Alistair in front of the ogre, driving his sword into its chest with both hands, but she felt it when the beast’s legs finally gave out. It fell sideways, hard enough to crack the stone of the floor, and Athadra jumped away just before it rolled onto its back. She couldn’t keep herself from howling with pleasure; her own blood sang with the joy of fighting, and killing, and  _l_ _iving_. This time Alistair had to slap her before she could gain control of the madness that threatened to take her.

After a long moment she caught her breath. Alistair was talking, but she couldn’t hear him. Instead, she went to reclaim her daggers, and finally managed to free them from their fleshy sheaths after great effort. Only once they were in her hands again did she notice her companion again.

“I said, we should light the beacon. The signal’s longsince past, surely.”

And with those words Athadra’s joy turned to ash in her mouth. She found herself nodding slowly, and going to one of the few lighted torches on the wall, but she couldn’t move fast enough. She knew that no matter how quickly she ran to the fireplace, how fervently she thrust the torch into the kindling, the signal would come too late. She felt a weight pressing down on her stomach as the tinder caught and the fire  _ wooshed _ .

“Too late,” she said, looking out into the ink-black sky. It had been sunset when they’d first been intercepted by the men from the tower, when they’d learned of the darkspawn that had taken it over. By now it looked close to midnight.

“Don’t say that,” Alistair snapped, though he didn’t sound convinced. “What does the battle look like?”

Athadra forced herself to look down, against her better judgment, and she quickly recoiled from the window. The battle was over, she could tell, and it hadn’t ended favorably. She was about to share what she’d seen when the door burst open, and a fresh wave of darkspawn erupted. She saw Alistair fall first, arrows sprouting from his neck and chest. She managed to enclose the archer in a Crushing Prison, though she couldn’t begin to guess where she’d drawn the power from, and she was too exhausted to dodge the wicked dagger one of the other monsters threw at her. Blackness enfolded her like a warm blanket on a cool day, and the last thing she remembered thinking was that at least Loghain wouldn’t have to spend too much effort tracking her down.

The darkness lasted for an instant, and it lasted for a dozen Ages. Eventually, Athadra became aware of warmth bathing her, where there had been simply  _ nothing _ before. She remembered that she had eyelids, and slowly recalled how to open them. The room was dimly lit by a fireplace, whose light only hurt her eyes for a moment, and when she remembered what had happened in the tower she sat up swiftly and looked around.

“Ahh, you are awake,” said a half-familiar voice from near one of the doorways. Athadra blinked and the woman came into focus; the dark-haired woman who’d met them in the Wilds and led them to  _ Asha’bellanar_, whom she claimed to be her mother. “Do you not remember me?” She drawled, her mannerisms very refined for someone who lived in the Korcari Wilds, if somewhat dated.

Athadra nodded. “Morrigan.” The name tasted strangely on her tongue, but the woman seemed pleased. Athadra saw that Morrigan was dressed in the same pieced-together rags which she’d worn the last time they’d met. They did little to hide the woman’s curves, and then Athadra realized that she herself was completely naked. “Who took my clothes?” She asked matter-of-factly. After all she’d seen recently, being nude in front of a strange woman was the least of her worries.

“ _ ‘ _ Twas I who peeled them from you, crusted with corrupted blood from head to foot as they were. They have been cleaned to the best of my ability, and you have been bathed. Your... _ problem _ ...has also been taken care of.”

Athadra raised an eyebrow. “Problem?”

Morrigan’s face grew darker. “From the templar. Mother learned of it as she healed you, and managed to piece together what must have caused it from your fevered whispers...or so she said.”

Athadra felt a different kind of numbness settle over her. She ran a hand over her belly, thumbing the small hint of a scar left there from the dagger. The scar would fade; Flemeth had healed her very well indeed. “How could it have survived the Joining?” She found herself asking.

“Perhaps it had not,” Morrigan mused. “But dead or alive, ‘twas within you and is there no longer. I am...sorry...if that news is unhappy. But your task is much too important, and impossible to complete with a child. Especially a child gotten against your will.”

The elf breathed deeply and closed her eyes. She hadn’t even thought of that possibility, not once, from the moment the templar had pushed her face against the cell door to when she woke just a few moments ago. Given how many people the Blight had already claimed, she had no right to mourn something that hadn’t yet even been a child, and yet she still felt a sense of loss. “Thank you, Morrigan,” she said at last, opening her crimson-toned eyes and facing the windowless room. “For saving me.”

Morrigan looked uncomfortable. “...You are welcome,” she replied. “Though mother did most of the work; I am no healer.”

“Did she save anyone else?” Athadra saw only her own armour hanging by the fire.

“Just you and your friend; there were few enough darkspawn left in the tower when she arrived, and you two were the only souls left with a breath of life, she claims. The darkspawn...won your battle. The man who was to save the day quit the field. Your friend...he is not taking it well.”

Her friend? “Where is Alistair?” Athadra asked.

“Outside. You should get dressed and join him. I can help you, if you wish.” After a pause, Athadra nodded and moved from the bed. Morrigan assisted her with her armour, and she got it on much more quickly than she had the first time. True to her word, Morrigan had cleaned all traces of battle from the armour. Even the daggers shone as though never used. Soon enough, Athadra was stepping into the misty swamp that was the Korcari Wilds; Alistair seemed so relieved to see her that it was mildly embarrassing.

“Athadra...you’re alive!” His eyes were red-rimmed, though his cheeks were now dry. “Duncan’s dead...the king’s dead. So many...I’m just...”

Athadra looked away, unable to speak. Duncan  was dead, as she’d known since she’d seen the mess of bodies in the valley from the top of the Tower of Ishal. Duncan was dead because of a plan she’d helped to mould, because of a task  she couldn’t adequately perform.

“This doesn’t make any sense; why would Loghain do this?!” Now that relief had taken root, Alistair seemed livid.

The old woman Athadra knew as  _ Asha’bellanar_, whom the Wilder folk called Flemeth, rasped a chuckle. “Men’s hearts hold secrets darker than any tainted creature,” she said mysteriously. She hadn’t given her name, and Athadra didn’t feel like asking, but the elf knew the tales well enough recognize who she might claim to be if asked. “You are Grey Wardens; it is your duty to stand in the face of death so that others might live, and unite the lands against a Blight.” 

Athadra took a breath and set her features into a mask, one she’d often used in her time at the Circle. “Alistair is the real Warden here, not me,” she said in a breath. “I’m the one who got the rest of them killed. Loghain would never have retreated if I hadn’t changed his plan. If I’d been faster...” As she spoke the words, she heard the teyrn’s promise echoing in her ears.

Flemeth reached out and took Athadra by the chin, boring her gaze into the young elf. “He did what he felt he must, as did you. Do not pity yourself; it does you no credit.” Athadra wanted to protest, but her tongue held fast to the roof of her mouth until the cold fingers let her go. 

Alistair shook his head. “Don’t you dare leave me now, Athadra. You...you’re all I’ve got left.” She could see tears forming in his eyes, and they nearly broke her heart. Couldn’t he see how this was all her fault? But he seemed adamant, and she didn’t know what else to do, so she nodded. The tall man collected himself again, and turned back toward the old witch. “What are we going to do now? With no army and no other Wardens, there’s no way we can stop the Blight.”

“You are not as bereft of options as you seem to think, young man,” Flemeth pointed out softly. Athadra wondered what she could mean, but Alistair finally realized her purpose.

“Of course, the treaties! They compel the dwarves and the Dalish elves to come to our aid...even the Circle!” He loosened a strap on his armour, which was still spotted with blood, and checked their hiding place beneath his breastplate. An arrow had evidently missed them by inches, but they were miraculously dry, as though some of their magical protection still clung on.

“Arl Eamon still has his forces in reserve, too,” Athadra pointed out. Her heart began to lighten--not with hope, exactly, but with a little less despair.

Flemeth cackled, and Athadra saw the facade of civility she’d treated them with begin to slip into a hint of the madness suggested by the legends. “Call me an old woman, but dwarves, elves, mages, this Arl Eamon...that sounds like an army to me.”

Just then, Morrigan emerged from the hut. Athadra caught her yellow-gold eyes for an instant and felt just a bit safer, though she didn’t know why. “A stew is on the fire, Mother. Will we be supping with two guests this eve, or none?”

Flemeth’s eyes grew wide. “You will accompany these two Grey Wardens on their task, dear daughter,” she said with half a grin.

“Such a sha--what?!” Morrigan’s face spasmed and Athadra felt that small security evaporate.

Flemeth huffed. “Consider the task before them; they must unite Ferelden against the Blight. With you, they may have a chance. Alone, they do not. And without them, all of Ferelden will perish. Even I.”

Morrigan’s face twisted through several expressions, and she tried to speak for a few moments before she settled down. “Very well,” she finally let on, defeated. “Let me gather my things...”

And where there had been two, there were now three. Flemeth retreated to the hut alongside Morrigan, who quickly emerged, and was soon guiding them expertly through the bog. She pronounced Lothering their destination, where they might rest and resupply before deciding on a further course of action. Athadra had mixed feelings about returning to her home, but she did not air them. If Alistair recalled her speaking with Carver, he didn’t let on over the downhill march from the mountains of the Wilds.


	8. I'll Play The Game And Pretend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athadra, Alistair, and Morrigan race away from the Wilds to escape the advance of the horde. In a land where the griffon crest is once again a liability, they find a pair of sympathetic souls who join them on their seemingly-hopeless quest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a few graphic depictions of violence, especially at the beginning.

“Hold,” Alistair said. They’d seen nothing of concern since exiting the Wilds, and could see the risen Imperial Highway in the distance, which told Morrigan that they were halfway to Lothering. Alistair also hadn’t spoken since suggesting that Morrigan cook, which Morrigan had answered by listing off all of the poisons she supposedly knew; Athadra actually  _ did _ know a bit of poisoncraft, enough to tell her that Morrigan was bluffing, but Alistair’s expression had been too priceless to mention that. Now, however, Alistair looked very serious. “Darkspawn, dead ahead. I think an Alpha is with them, too.”

_ Alpha _ was how the Grey Wardens termed the mid-level darkspawn that the bulk of the horde paid attention to. There were also Emissaries, which could do magic in their own right, and Generals, which were never far from the tainted dragon the Wardens called the Archdemon. Athadra could feel no magic in the distance, and try as she might she couldn’t sense the darkspawn, either. Nevertheless she drew her daggers and let out a long breath, channeling some of her mana back into her muscles and keeping the rest reserved for spells. The longer she went without her stave, the less she missed it, and now hardly anyone--save templars and other mages--could guess that she had any magic at all.

Once Morrigan had unlimbered her own staff, which resembled nothing so much as a gnarled tree limb and might have been mistaken for a true walking stick, Alistair drew his sword and unshouldered his shield. Then he gave a nod, signalling them to proceed down the path. In the distance Athadra heard a series of growls and barks that reminded her of the mabari hounds she’d witnessed at Ostagar, just before going into the Wilds proper. “Is that a mabari?” She wondered aloud, and then she was jogging ahead, turning the wooded corner and witnessing one of the iconic dogs going toe-to-claw with an axe-wielding Hurlock in a horned helmet. The dog was holding its own, but it wouldn’t be able to last much longer, as the Alpha had a cohort of weaker darkspawn; more Hurlocks, human-like, and a few Genlocks, which resembled fevered caricatures of beardless dwarves. 

Even as Athadra ran, Morrigan did her best to freeze the Alpha, which drew the other darkspawn’s attention. Alistair kept pace with the younger Grey Warden, and without thought for consequence they threw themselves into the knot of wretched beasts. Athadra concentrated, and sent a pulse of air all around which dazed them; she tried directing it around Alistair, but he still winced a bit. Athadra held her daggers underhand, just as she’d drawn them, and planted them liberally in faces and necks; each time she reaped a harvest in black blood. By the time the darkspawn began to collect themselves, several had fallen to her rapid assault. Alistair drew the Alpha’s attention, and the mabari lunged, ripping out its throat. The few darkspawn that remained turned and ran, scattering back into the woods. Athadra caught her breath and relaxed the magic out of her muscles, and the mabari sat in front of them expectantly.

“Hey, doesn’t he look familiar?” Alistair pointed out.

Athadra shrugged. It looked like a mabari to her...but upon closer inspection, she  _ did _ recognize it. It was the very same hound she’d muzzled on a dare from Daveth going into the Wilds, which had gotten sick from the darkspawn taint earlier in the fighting. The kennelmaster had sworn that a couple of heads of blood lily would be able to cure the dog, and she’d fetched some on the way to picking up the treaties. She’d forgotten about the gesture almost immediately after returning, with the excitement of her Joining and all that had come after.

“The way he’s looking at you, I’d say he’s  _ chosen _ you. They call it  _ Imprinting_.” Alistair seemed inordinately pleased with the idea of having an animal along. Morrigan scoffed behind them, but did not comment.

Athadra knelt down. “It looks like you survived the taint, huh?” She was still wary. From what she knew of mabaris, they were very smart and could be quite useful, but she wasn’t certain she could properly care for an animal. “Will you be able to hunt your own food, pup?” The dog nodded, and she recalled that such understanding was common amongst the breed. “Can you help us hunt, too?” Another nod. “Do you even  _ want _ to follow me, dog?” An excited yap was her answer.

“So what are you going to call him?” Alistair asked, practically bouncing.

Athadra reached out and let the hound sniff her, and then she crouched, making certain that it really was a  _ him_, as Alistair had assumed. “Seeing as how he’s drunk as much darkspawn blood as I have and lived to bark about it, I think I’ll call him Garahel. Is that alright with you, boy?” A moment’s hesitation, and then another nod, and she found herself truly smiling for the first time since she’d broken her fast with Tarimel and Gregor.

Morrigan huffed. “The flea-bitten mongrel had better keep its paws away from my section of camp,” she said airily.

Athadra stood, and so did the dog. His head came up to her hip, so she didn’t need to bend down to pat him. “I’ll bet he’ll be useful,” she replied over her shoulder.

Morrigan cocked a brow. “And yet we still have Alistair along.”

“Hey...” groaned Alistair, and both Athadra and Morrigan laughed. Even Garahel yipped happily. Athadra had named him for the elven Grey Warden who had faced down the last Archdemon to rise, four Ages prior; the man had died, but so had the Archdemon. She hoped that the dog could help them live up to the reputation of his namesake without suffering the same fate.

They walked for the rest of the day, and well into the evening. Alistair assured them that the darkspawn they’d chased off were nowhere near them, and they settled into camp a few miles from Lothering. It was the second night they’d made such a camp, which was actually two camps set in close proximity; one with Athadra and Alistair sleeping on either side of a fire pit, now with Garahel lying down close to the elf, while the other consisted of Morrigan’s own tent and a smaller private fire. Morrigan and Alistair both seemed to prefer it that way, which was the only thing about which they could ever agree.

By noon the next day, Alistair and Athadra had bloodied their blades again on more than one occasion. The first time, a gang of thieves guarding Lothering’s exit on the Imperial Highway had thought that two Grey Wardens covered in dried darkspawn blood would make a wonderful target for banditry. Athadra honestly lacked the ten silvers the thugs’ leader insisted on, but despite the doubts of one of his colleagues, he’d insisted on applying his  _ toll _ anyway. Now the gang’s bodies littered the very highway they’d blocked off, and their purses belonged to Athadra’s little band.

The second time Athadra had acted alone, agreeing to out-muscle a Chantry priest for a ‘small profit’, only to slide her dagger over the greedy merchant’s throat and leave his cart to the beggars--after she’d picked over it, of course. That had caused Alistair to stop speaking with her again for some reason, until Athadra agreed to  _ do some real good _ by fulfilling a few of the quests on the Chantry’s notice board. She’d refused, wanting to get as far away from Lothering’s Chantry as she could.

The third encounter was with a group of Loghain’s men. It dismayed Athadra more than she could admit that her worst doubts about herself were being spread far and wide, and that people she’d never met were spitting accusations of treachery in her face. It didn’t stop her from killing the men, and brushing off the offer of a self-proclaimed Lay Sister of the Chantry, who’d jumped into the fight uninvited. Through it all, Athadra tried to ignore the welling desire to venture North, to see what might have become of her family...or to see if Carver had somehow made it out of that valley. She didn’t know which contingent of the army he’d wound up in, but she hoped he’d made it, somehow. And that he didn’t think her a coward, or worse.

But the Hawkes would be of no help to her, and neither would her parents; she would have had to give up her family’s name at the Joining if the Circle hadn’t already taken it from her. The best thing she could do for  _ them _ was stay away, probably forever. She could feel the greed in the glances people shot her, greed stoked by the offer of gold for her head on a spike. Not Alistair’s head... _hers_. When people accosted them, it was always her they looked to first, and it nearly turned her stomach. But the work on Loghain’s guards had spread from the tavern as quickly as a flash flood, and the looks she got were tinged by fear as often as not.

“I’m not sorry for killing the market-man,” she said to Alistair as the three of them headed out to procure some herbs for the village’s elder woman. The pull of the farms was strong this way, but she tried to keep her crimson-tinted eyes away from the North as much as possible. “I weren’t sorry then, and I willn’t be sorry tomorrow. I’ve already killed the King of Ferelden, and I’m going to kill a damned sight more innocent people before this business is done.” She didn’t know where the words came from, or what effect they might have on her companions, but she didn’t care. She felt she had to keep talking, to keep Morrigan and Alistair from tearing one another apart with their own meaningless prattle.

“That’s not true,” Alistair said at last, reluctantly. “You didn’t kill King Cailan.”

She looked over her shoulder at him. “I might as well have done,” she said, and shook her head when Alistair looked to argue. “Do you think these people care that I tried my best? Do you think anyone  _ should_? When their brothers and sisters and sons and daughters don’t come back to them, do you think they’ll much care about some traitor elf mage?” She was near to screaming, now, and Alistair put up his hands.

“I care, Athadra,” he said softly. “I know what really happened...and one day, everyone else will, too. But that doesn’t mean you just get to go around killing whoever you like,” he pointed out.

“I say ‘twould mean she can kill those who get in her way,” Morrigan said, contrary as always, but Athadra felt immensely grateful just the same. Alistair was about to argue that, when a gang of villagers accosted them, looking directly at Athadra’s griffon crest. They outnumbered the travelers three to one at least, but not a one of them had on armour, and they were unprepared to face down a more-or-less disciplined warrior and two mages. Nevertheless, that damned Chantry wench came running from behind a farmhouse and bloodied her own dagger again.

“What do you  _want_ ,  woman?” Athadra demanded, once the last villager’s blood was soaking into the grass.

“My name is Leliana, like I told you before, in the tavern,” the red-haired woman said in her strange accent, not quite Orlesian. She looked hurt, but no less determined. “And the Maker has told me to help you. Surely you cannot deny Him?” Colour flared in her cheeks when both Morrigan and Athadra laughed out loud, so she directed her attentions to Alistair, who was looking everywhere but at his companions. “Are you not Chantrists? ...Or not Andrasteans at all?”

The templar-in-training stammered. “No, no...we are... _ ow_,” he took a step back from Athadra’s elbow. “Well, I am. My friends...don’t really seem to be, no.” He shrugged apologetically.

Leliana’s eyes narrowed, but she nodded. “You may not believe in the Maker, but you are doing His Work, all the same.”

“The  _ Chantry _ claims that your Maker unleashed the darkspawn in the first place,” Morrigan sing-songed. “ _‘_ Twould appear as though battling the darkspawn back into the ground and beyond goes...somewhat against that intent.”

Athadra held up her hand to forestall the interloper’s response. “What can you do, besides get yourself in other people’s business?”

Leliana paused, and appeared to judge her goal worth forgoing a debate with a pair of heretics. “I can do more than fight,” she insisted. “I can get past barred doors and locked chests, and I can fell a deer at fifty paces with a shortbow.”

Alistair came to her defence immediately. “Aren’t you tired of blowing apart half whatever’s inside strongboxes to get into them?” It was the first time he’d acknowledged her attempts at thievery, especially since she and Morrigan had figured that freezing and breaking the locks off of strongboxes could work at least some of the time. “And those snares we set last night didn’t exactly fill our bellies, either...”

Athadra frowned so deeply she thought the corners of her mouth might  _rendezvous_ beneath her chin. It was ultimately her stomach that decided for her; it hadn’t really stopped its low growl since they’d left Flemeth’s hut. “Very well,” she huffed, shooting a glance at Morrigan when she snarked. “You can come with us as long as you earn your place.” The woman clapped her hands and veritably bounced, but Athadra wasn’t done. “If I wake up one morning surrounded by templars trying to drag me back to the Circle, I will cut through each and every one of them to get you.” She patted a sheathed dagger for emphasis. “Understand?”

The woman, Leliana, was almost too quick to nod. “You have my word,” she said with a bow. “I am no  _ espionne de la Chanterie_.”

“ _ Très bien _ ,” Athadra replied, indulging in a small grin at Leliana’s surprise at hearing the foreign tongue echoed back at her.

“Oh, but you two must change out of those clothes! Everyone can see you are Wardens from a dozen furlongs in every direction. Come, I have saved some equipment from the men who attacked us in the tavern. It is in my room at the Chantry. The templars, they are more worried about the darkspawn now than mages, I believe.”

That was true enough of the ones Athadra had encountered outside. Still, she was uneasy. “Lead on,” she said after a moment. They  _ did _ need some clothes that didn’t advertise their identities so broadly, and so despite her doubts, she followed the Chantry wench back toward the low walls of Lothering proper.


	9. Like a Band of Gypsies...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two remaining Grey Wardens leave Lothering and venture back toward Redcliffe, gaining a strange patchwork confederation both in the village and outside of it. Athadra makes another promise that she might eventually keep, and the party run into a bit of trouble with a murder of Crows...

“Are you _certain_ you are Qunari?” Athadra asked, only half in jest. Darkness had settled around the camp; Morrigan had settled at the perimeter, perhaps a little closer this time, and Alistair and Leliana were talking idly. Athadra didn’t feel like chasing down the memories Alistair wanted to talk about, so she hoped he could find a sympathetic ear in the Orlesian.

“Yes,” was the giant’s only reply. His tone held no note of sarcasm, and he held her gaze neutrally, yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was mocking her.

Athadra forged on, regardless. “You seem a little...small,” she pointed out. “And you’ve misplaced your horns.” That got a flicker of an expression crossing the Sten’s features, which hardly changed even in the thick of battle. They’d found him in a cage just outside of Lothering’s low wall, evidently awaiting the darkspawn horde for killing a farming family.

“You speak of physical attributes,” he rumbled. Athadra was pleased; those were the most consecutive words he’d spoken since expressing mild confusion that Athadra might possess breasts  _ and _ know how to use her daggers, and kept obstinately refusing to reconcile the two ideas no matter how many times she’d countered him. “The Qunari are not  a people,” he continued. “They are  _ all _ peoples.”

Athadra raised an eyebrow. “Even elves?” She’d never heard of such a thing, but then again, records of the horn-heads were scant enough anywhere under the purview of the Chantry.

“Indeed,” the Sten replied. That’s how he’d introduced himself, as  _ a Sten of the Beresaad_, making it sound like a military rank more than a name. “The ones you call Qunari are better known as  _ kossith_. The Qun originated amongst us, but thankfully it has spread beyond.”

“But you do not look like a kossith,” she pointed out. “Not the likeness I’ve seen, at any rate.”

Now it was the Sten’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Do I not?” When she nodded, the corner of his mouth twitched, though he did not smile. “Very well.” He took a deep breath and began a low chant, very similar to the one he’d been repeating in the cage, before his rescue. “ _Kost ebost kata. Ataash varin kata. Menist raqun kata. Anaan esaam Qun_. ” He opened his violet eyes and regarded her evenly.

“What’s that mean?” Her brow drew down, but she did not turn her gaze away, even as a small smile  _ did _ finally cross the Sten’s lips.

“It means that you are not fit to judge whether someone is Qunari or not,” was all he said, and he turned toward the fire, leaving her isolated in the centre of the camp. After many moments of silence, Athadra regained her feet and strode toward Morrigan’s corner of the camp, but on the way she noticed a curious sight; two different caravans had also settled down and made a mini-camp of their own, so that the main fire, Morrigan’s enclave and the caravans were like three points on an even-sided triangle.

With an annoyed sigh, she made her way over to the nearest cart. Her expression didn’t change when she saw that it was being hauled by the two dwarves she’d saved as her party was leaving Lothering. At the time the elder had wanted nothing to do with the Grey Wardens, but evidently that had changed, and after a few minutes of haggling, she agreed to let him follow her at least to Redcliffe, which she’d settled on as their next destination shortly after saving the dwarf’s hide the first time around.

Athadra couldn’t remember the remaining straggler, who pulled his cart with a mule and looked hopefully apologetic when she rounded on him. “Name o’ Levi,” he said before she could open her mouth, “Levi Dryden.” Athadra blinked, her fingers twitching to the daggers she still kept at her hips. They were the only remnant of the Warden armour that she’d kept, though parting with the rest of it felt like just another betrayal. She wasn’t even certain she  _ wanted _ to find the sodding Archdemon anymore, if she were honest with herself. “Whoa, now,” the man said, holding up his hands. “I was a good friend o’ Duncan’s. D’he ever mention me? Levi o’ the coins? Levi the trader?”

The elf shook her head. “Not even once,” she breathed. “What do you want?” The fingers of her right hand had settled around the dagger’s hilt by now, and didn’t seem likely to move.

“Well, er...y’see...he made me a promise, back before this whole Ostagar business, o’course. That he’d look into a bit o’ my family’s history, and all that.” Levi swallowed. “My great-great grandmother was Sophia Dryden.” He paused, probably to see if she recognized the name, and then decided it was best to keep talking. “She was the last Commander o’ the Grey in Ferelden afore Duncan...it was her that got the Wardens thrown out in the first beginnin’.”

That gave Athadra a moment’s pause, but not much longer. “And what does that have to do with me? Now? That was two Ages ago.”

“I know that,” Levi said. “My family’s had our name dragged through the mud ever since then. Been worth less’n dirt, truth to tell. But there’s a fortress up near Highever that belonged to the Wardens, y’see. It’s where...where I think she died. It’s not been prop’ly surveyed since that time, but I know me the way.”

Athadra heaved a sigh. “But...you’re afraid of what’s there, aren’t you?” She looked him over; he wasn’t as fat as the trader she’d murdered in Lothering, but he had no muscle, either. “Problem is,” she pointed out, “Highever’s on the other side of the sodding country, on the other side of the bannorn. I dunno if you’ve noticed, Levi Dryden, but Teyrn Loghain is rallying the banns against the Grey Wardens, which will make it almost impossible to go through.”

Levi nodded. “But the Imperial Highway--”

“--goes past Kinloch Hold one way, and through Denerim the other.” She held out her left hand and summoned an orb of arcane energy, which startled the man. “Loghain is certain to be heading for Denerim, if he isn’t already there. And you can see why I’m not willing to get within twenty furlongs of the Circle Tower.”

“But the Wardens are above that,” he said earnestly. “The Circle ain’t got no right to call you back. You’re a Warden.” He nodded to himself, and flinched when she screamed with frustration.

“If you haven’t noticed, the Grey Wardens are gone! They’re all dead, except for one half-wit templar and one traitor mage with a bounty on her head!” She let go of the dagger, but took up the cloth of Levi’s shirt. “Duncan’s dead, market-man. There ain’t no one that can stop the templars from hunting me down and dragging me all the way back like the apostate they all think I am anyhow.”

Levi’s eyes went wide and he backed up against his cart; he was lucky or smart enough not to try to touch her, which kept her from slitting his throat. “P-please,” he said in a squeaky voice. “Not askin’ you to turn ‘round and go right now...but if’n you can ever make it to Highever, I’m beggin’ you to help me...and help yourself. The fortress can be repaired. My family’ll do it without a second thought, just you wait.”

Athadra couldn’t fault the man’s courage, even if he stammered and cowered; he did not back down, even though fire danced in her eyes and spells itched at her fingers. After a moment she took a breath and let him go. “Fine,” she admitted at last. “You can come to Redcliffe with us, too. If I still have my head, and if Arl Eamon’s not as sick as rumour has it, I’ll  _ consider _ it after I’ve met with the man.” She remembered the knight in the Chantry of Lothering, who’d told Alistair about the arl’s sudden illness and the arlessa’s insistence on finding some miracle cure from the ashes of Andraste herself.

“Thank you, Warden!” Levi was near to tears. “You won’t regret this, I’ll stake my life on that.” She frowned. “I’ll try not to be a bother ‘till we get to Redcliffe...and then, if need be, we’ll part ways. But I pray you’ll make good on your cause, and that good Arl Eamon’ll pull through and help.”

With a little grunt, the elf turned heel and went back to the small tent she’d acquired in Lothering, her plans to seek out her fellow mage abandoned for the night. She ignored Alistair’s concerned call, and wished that he’d have the good sense to leave her alone; she didn’t know if he’d heard her, but she didn’t feel like putting on a brave face for him again. His idea that they could somehow fight Loghain and the Circle and the darkspawn, all on their own, seemed so foolish that she had to laugh. Still, there was nowhere else for her...she certainly didn’t want to risk drawing attention to her mother and father, whom she hadn’t seen in half her lifetime anyway. She fell asleep hoping that they could somehow outrun the darkspawn bearing down on them.

_ This night she dreamt of coming to the human settlement from the South, keeping to the shadows with her fellows. She grunted and hissed, and knew that the  All-Mother could see through her eyes, too. She saw the steady stream of people fleeing North in the darkness, seeking refuge away from her brothers, and she heard the chords of the  All-Mother’s song changing subtly. When she made it back to her brothers, she told them without speaking what the  _ All-Mother _ wanted, and she knew that her brothers would break off from their headlong march and instead would curve around the town to halt this impermissible retreat of the humans... _

Athadra woke up screaming again, and got herself tangled in the shoddy wood and canvas of her tent; eventually she decided to cut her way out, and cursed to herself when she saw the unusable remains. By then she’d forgotten most of her dream, but she couldn’t stop shuddering for many long minutes until Leliana offered her some bird’s eggs cooked on a stone.

Alistair approached her as Morrigan and Leliana broke down their tents; he and the Sten preferred sleeping under the stars, she guessed. “Do you want to talk about it?” He asked, and raised an eyebrow when she looked at him so strangely. “You could just say ‘no thank you,’ you know,” he said a bit testily.

“No...” Athadra sighed, and worked on readjusting her leather armour from the fitful sleep. “It’s just that that’s the first thing I remember Duncan asking me, after...after we got out of the Circle Tower.” She shrugged, and Alistair nodded.

“He was...a good man,” Alistair said at last.

“Better than us, anyway,” Athadra concurred. “Let’s go. If I remember right, we can make Redcliffe by nightfall. Sooner, if we take the Highway.”

Morrigan rejoined them as they were about to set off. “That might not be wise,” she said by way of greeting. For once, Alistair didn’t immediately take the opposite position, though he didn’t exactly fall over himself to agree.

Athadra sighed. “You know, you’re going to regret making me make all the decisions one day. I just know it.”

“Luckily, they’ll all be looking at you when the smoke clears, and I can just tiptoe away and join a mummers’ crew,” he said with that same cocky grin. Leliana stifled a giggle, and Athadra raised a brow when she caught a hint of colour coming to the tall man’s cheeks. When camp broke, she decided to cross the Imperial Highway and remain South until Redcliffe, so they wouldn’t get pinned between it and Lake Calenhad on their way.

They saw the wisdom of their plan almost immediately; a small company of soldiers were marching down the Highway from the East, which the party barely managed to evade as they crossed the wide thoroughfare. One or two of the marchers looked out to the South as they passed, but the group kept on marching, and Athadra took her gang deeper into the woods. The next few hours passed without incident, and though Alistair complained of hunger near noon, Athadra would not stop. She intended to see Redcliffe before nightfall, Imperial Highway or no.

In the early afternoon, however, a woman hailed them down. They’d seen no one on the small side-road all morning, but this one seemed desperate, babbling about how ‘they’ had attacked a wagon presumably belonging to her and her family. Athadra felt the subtle tingle of magic about the woman and cocked a brow, but Alistair insisted that they help, suggesting that those soldiers might have been deserters taken to banditry in the confusion. So with a sigh and a nod, Athadra motioned for her fellows to follow; the plainly-dressed mage had already ran back.

When Athadra rounded a corner, she indeed saw an overturned wagon with slaughtered oxen, surrounded by familiar-looking soldiers. She halted at the same time the woman did, and barely managed to leap out of the way of a falling tree. She saw that the Sten and Garahel had managed to land on the same side of the tree as well, but she had no time to see if the rest of her companions had halted before the trunk fell. Instead an elf skirted around the strange woman, drawing his own daggers from his back.

“ _The Grey Warden dies here! _ ”


	10. Friend or Foe?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athadra's cadre have fended off an attack by the famed Antivan Crows, sent to take her head back to Loghain. Alistair scoffs when the elf decides to show a bit of uncharacteristic mercy, and Sten decides to turn her into a proper warrior.

The elf groaned as Athadra limped toward him. The Sten had taken his weapons and tied him up against a tree when they’d found him unconscious but alive; all others were killed where they’d fallen, if they hadn’t died already. He opened his eyes just as the young Warden pressed her blood-soaked dagger to his throat. “Talk,” she barked, “before I cut your neck open and pull your tongue through the hole.”

The man’s mouth opened and he blinked, as though uncertain how he’d wound up in this position. “I...would have expected to wake up dead,” he said at last. “Or not wake up at all, as the case may be.” Even under the blade, he managed a cocky smile.

Athadra grunted and winced at an arrow still stuck in her left arm. “That will be corrected soon enough,” she hissed. “How do you know who I am?” A rustling behind her told her that Alistair and the rest were gathering around, but she did not turn from her prize.

“My employer was quite specific in your description. Howe, I think his name was. He engaged my services before the battle, in case he had use of my team there or after. When his own boss came through Lothering on his way back to the capitol, I was given my instructions to hunt you down and slay you where you stood.” His long ear twitched, but he seemed utterly unafraid as he spoke.

Athadra’s gut felt full of stones, and she sat back, taking the knife away from her captive. That was quite a bit more information than she’d been expecting. “Why are you telling me this?”

He smiled much more graciously now that the weapon was gone from him. “My name is Zevran, Zev to my friends. I have a very particular set of skills which wealthy nobles sometimes find uses for...occasionally, my discretion is one such. This time, however, I was not paid for my silence...not that I offered it for sale, precisely.” His accent sounded a bit like the old Warden, Richu’s.

“You from Nevarra?” She asked, holding her breath as she yanked the arrow from her arm. Cursing, she healed the gash, though she knew it would scar over.

Leliana giggled from behind her. “No, he is from Antiva. Antiva City, if my ears do not deceive.” That got Athadra snatching a glance over her shoulder to raise an eyebrow, but the bound elf’s own laugh caught her off guard, and she turned back to him.

“I see the game is up, eh?” Zevran said with a shrug. “I am an Antivan Crow, as they say. An assassin...though not for much longer, it seems.” He sighed. “Even if I could convince you to let me go, it would only be a matter of time before the Crows learned of my failure, and then...” He shook his head.

That gave her pause.  _ Any means_, she heard Duncan’s voice echoing. As the interrogation continued, she became more convinced that the elf could be of more use to her alive than dead. Zevran sealed it by claiming that he’d never had a choice about joining the Crows, and that he’d honestly rather take his chances on her. Finally she pronounced her intention. Alistair protested it immediately, and Athadra shrugged, offering to let the slightly elder Warden strike the killing blow himself, if he felt the need to. Alistair backed down, then, grumbling.

“A fine plan,” Morrigan announced, perhaps just to spite the templar-in-training. “Though I would examine my food and drink much more closely from now on, were I you,” she added.

Athadra shook her head with a little smirk. “No need. Sten, cut him free.” The Qunari obliged without comment, and Athadra helped him up. “Hopefully Loghain and the Crows don’t find out  _ too _ soon. We’ve got word that Arl Eamon’s took sick, and his wife’s got his knights out looking for a Brother Genitivi.” Zevran nodded, but remained quiet. “Thing is,” Athadra continued, “this Chantryman’s holed up in Denerim, where Loghain’s headed.”

Zevran’s eyes lit up. “Ahh. And you wish me to find him, to save you the trouble?” Athadra nodded, though she didn’t return his smile. “This I can do for you. A single assassin can travel much more quickly than a troop of soldiers, no?”

“You won’t be going alone,” Athadra pointed out, and this time she couldn’t stop a smirk from creasing the corner of her mouth. “Chantrist, you should accompany him. “ She’d overheard the now-former lay sister telling Alistair that she’d been a  _ traveling minstrel _ back in Orlais. From what Athadra had learned about Orlesian minstrels back in the Circle, she had her suspicions that Leliana was a bit more than just a sooth-singer; her facility with blades and bows was good evidence that Athadra’s suspicions were correct.

Alistair straightened. “No!” He protested yet again, but before Athadra could argue further, Leliana stepped forward.

“No, no,” she said in a soothing tone. “Athadra is right. We only have a small window of opportunity before our new friend’s failure becomes known,  _ non_? And two may be able to discover more than one, and might  _ come back _ to tell about it.” She shot the warrior a look.

“But he could still be dangerous,” Alistair pointed out. For her part, Athadra hadn’t taken her eyes off of the man since his bonds had been cut.

Leliana giggled and batted her eyelashes. “I can take care of myself, Alistair.” Athadra bit back a remark at the familiar tone she was already using, but she could almost  _ feel _ the blush blooming across the other Grey Warden’s cheeks, behind her back. Leliana continued. “I promised to be of service to you both, and if that means crossing Ferelden and back again, that is what I shall do.”

Athadra cocked her head at the other elf, who was just slightly taller than her. “Well? It is your choice. You can work for me, go back to the Crows, or try to make it on your own.”

Zevran swallowed, and lowered himself to one knee. “I do not see that as a choice, my dear. Certain death at the hands of my former masters, or fulfilling the whims of a deadly sex goddess, who not only spares my life but sends me on a mission of intrigue with a companion nearly as lovely as she?” Athadra’s fingers found her daggers’ hilts, and he cut his flattery short. Without breaking her gaze, he recited, “I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you, until such a time as you release me from it. I am your man, to use as you wish, asking only your protection in return. I will find this Brother Genitivi for you, or his whereabouts. This I swear.”

After a moment, the elf mage nodded. “I accept.” She clasped his hand again and pulled him up. “Now help us loot these bodies for everything we can take with us to Redcliffe. You can have your share when you return.” She planned to remain there for a week or until the two made it back, whichever one was quicker. Combing over human bodies was quicker than working over darkspawn corpses; they had more coin and equipment, it was true, but humans and elves didn’t generally didn’t have half-rotting skin that stuck to their clothes and armour even before they died. 

The haul was not as impressive as she’d hoped, given how many bodies they’d racked up. Evidently being an Antivan Crow wasn’t the most lucrative of prospects for those expected to do the actual killing. Even so, Zevran showed little remorse at stripping his fallen comrades of their possessions, and once they’d gathered the usable or salable goods, he and Leliana took their leave, promising to make it to Denerim and back in six days. Alistair was in one of his not-talking-to-Athadra moods again, which fairly suited her, and they all carried off the hard-won gains to a clearing worthy of their larger camp. Athadra suspected it was near to where she’d stayed with Duncan that first night out of Redcliffe, but she made no mention of it, not wanting to change Alistair’s mind.

Somehow, the dwarf who called himself Bodahn Feddic found them again, and the tiresome Levi some time after. She refused to acknowledge the human, but spent a good long time haggling with the merchant, who seemed willing enough to truck with her over the goods she’d collected in Lothering and along the road. Along with the gold from the Chanter’s Board in Lothering, she’d managed to net a few sovereigns, which sounded impressive until Bodahn told her how much the items he had for sale in exchange would cost her, even with her supposed  _ discount_.

None of her remaining companions were interested in taking a share of the treasure; before she moved to set up her private tent, Morrigan suggested it be saved to purchase them reasonable accommodations in the village, well away from the docks. Evidently their reputation had spread as far as the Wilds. Even Alistair could find nothing wrong with the suggestion, and Athadra thanked Morrigan before she retired.

The fire took longer to build that night, but they still had enough dried venison from a deer felled the previous evening to last them to morning, even with the Grey Wardens’ appetites. Some time after the last of their food was done, the Sten approached Athadra. “I have watched you on the field of battle for two days, now.” The mage waited for him to continue, doing her best to match his featureless expression. “You use the  _i_ _metaara_ of the shadow-fighters. Daggers, you would say.”

“...And?” She said eventually, after his silence had lingered more than a minute.

“You do not fight like the shadow-fighters. You face your opponents head-on and you watch them die.  _ Imetaara _ are not appropriate weapons for such a style.” He frowned, but she did not sense disapproval. “You say you are a warrior, and you are beginning to act like one. You must have a warrior’s weapon.”

Athadra’s placid visage finally rippled when she quirked a brow. “And where will I find such a weapon?” Her eyes widened when he produced a very large sword wrapped in oiled cloth.

“I procured it from the screaming man, in front of the Chantry. He already had an axe; I saw no need for him to have this as well. I would have taken it for myself, had you not given me a blade as fine once we went inside.” His expression had not changed, but his eyes seemed more expectant, somehow.

Athadra’s lips parted; in the light of the fire, the blade looked far too big for her. The Sten lay it on the ground where she sat, and she saw that the sword filled every inch of the cloth when she unwrapped it. “I...I’m not certain I can lift this thing, Sten.”

“Try,” was all he said in response.

She took up the handle and levered the pointed tip into the soft ground, heaving a bit until the sword stood straight on its end. The hilt rested between her elbow and shoulder, and the handle sprouted up from there, taller than her head. It was a barbarian’s weapon, with one sharp side and the other flat. The Sten nodded, grunting encouragement. Athadra’s breath caught when she took the handle in both hands, and she closed her eyes, feeling her mana pouring into her muscles. Her face set and she heaved, yanking the Chasind flatblade from its perch in the earth and whipping it upright, so that the tip wavered eye-level with the Sten.

“Good,” he curtly. “That is a weapon worthy of a warrior. Will you be worthy of it?”

She didn’t notice Alistair staring at her across the fire. Instead she hissed through her teeth and slowly lowered the sword, her face reddening. “I...don’t think I’m strong enough to hold it, let alone use it.”

The Sten huffed. “We shall see.” He moved more quickly than she might have thought possible for one so large, if she hadn’t already seen him fighting. She felt her magic rush to her arms as if by instinct, but still she hardly got her blade up in time to block his own. A  clang rang out when the swords kissed, sending off a few sparks in the darkness. The Sten called out something in his Qunari tongue, but Athadra couldn’t hear it properly; she was too busy swinging that damned sword to block his blows. “Attack, don’t just defend,” he called over the clashing of their blades. “Your sword will be your only shield; if I get around it, you will die.” His breath sounded more laboured, but his tone was still even.

Athadra’s bare feet inched back with every swing she countered, and she realized then that he wasn’t talking about some future battle; it was here, now, that she would fall unless she fought back. Her arms and legs ached already, still not recovered from the fight with the Crows before. She was almost too slow once, and the Sten’s sharp blade licked across her upper arm. She felt the hot blood weeping inside the leather of her light armour, and reclaimed some of the battle-madness she’d felt in the fight with the ogre, back at Ostagar. Athadra’s heel pained her, and she realized that he’d backed her up against the fire pit. One more step and she’d fall to the flames. With a sudden surge of energy, the Warden lunged forward, turning her parries into thrusts. The Sten grunted his encouragement even as her fingers went numb from the force of the impacts.

Their blades came together one last time, several feet from the fire, and Athadra trembled as she held back the force of the Sten’s push. After a moment he nodded, still frowning. “You will take more training,” he pronounced, relaxing his posture. “But you will do.” When he removed his greatsword from its embrace with the flatblade, Athadra nearly fell forward. She lowered the tip into the ground and leaned on it, breathing heavily, and she felt the last of her mana draining from her from sheer exertion, as certainly as though a Senior Enchanter had just put her through an examination.

Before she slept, the Sten showed her how to care for the blade. He gave her a flintstone to hone the edge with, and taught her to keep it wrapped tight in the oilcloth when not in use. They even fashioned a sheath of sorts, which held the blade by hook-like implements at an angle across her back, so she wouldn’t drag it across the ground as she walked. She decided to keep the daggers at her hips, as her last memento of the Warden uniform she’d taken them from if nothing else, and when sleep finally claimed her, she was too exhausted to scream in the night.


	11. Recalcitrant Allies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athadra makes a not-so-triumphant return to Redcliffe to find the place beset by nightly raids by the walking dead. She agrees to help, but uses her subtle charms to ensure that she gets a decent reward for her services; she might well get an Exalted March called on her by the next sunrise.

Athadra gazed over the ridge into the plunging gorge which Redcliffe occupied. Many buildings jutted from the cliffside, supported by massive stilts. She was still sore from the previous night’s exercises, but she felt stronger, and actually looked forward to the lessons that the Sten had offered her. From her current vantage, the young Warden could see almost the whole of the village, and she even spied the castle across the enormous bridge, looming in the mists. It sat on a thin finger of an island, jutting hundreds of feet from the water, accessible only by the bridge. Athadra thought it might have once been attached to the shoreline, whittled into an island by rushing water or magic or even, perhaps, the simple ingenuity of mundanes.

“The town looks near abandoned,” Alistair said to himself. He’d called her away from Morrigan and the Sten, even Garahel, to tell her something important. She turned back to him and arched a brow. “Look, I’m sorry I got angry with you,” he said, looking down at her feet and rubbing his neck. “I should have known you wouldn’t trust Leliana any more than you trusted the Antivan.”

Athadra breathed a sigh. “I don’t know why you do, either. But we’ll see in a week, if either of them make it back.”

“If it’s the elf alone,” said Alistair, almost to himself, “I’ll take you up on your offer.” He looked her in the eye, and when she nodded, he continued. “Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. Have I mentioned that I know Arl Eamon before?” The younger Warden thought back, but honestly could not remember, and so she shook her head. “Ah, well, I sort of...grew up...here.”

Athadra nodded, still wondering what the big secret might be. “You telling me you’re King Cailan’s secret brother or something?” She asked offhandedly, and she was completely taken aback when his cheeks flushed to the same shade of crimson as her eyes.

“How did you know that?!” He took a horrified step back.

Athadra stammered for a moment. “I...were just kidding? Like you are now?” _Please, please let him just be kidding_ , she thought to herself.

Alistair hesitated, and then shook his head. “No, I’m not...for once. Though I really ought to try that line out. ‘Hey, I’m not just a bastard, I’m a _Royal Bastard!_ ’...no? Not even a chuckle?” He made a face and sighed. “But seriously, how did you guess?”

The elf thought back. “I met you and the king on the same day. Lots of people in this darkspawn-damned country have blue eyes, but his are very...distinctive. And his hair is a peculiar shade of yellow. And when I saw you, you reminded me of him...but I figured you got that all the time, so I never mentioned it.” She shrugged. “I just thought it was a coincidence.”

“‘Fraid not,” he said, his expression far more serious than she was used to, even more so than when he was sulking in silence after she’d murdered someone who hadn’t deserved it. “It’s not like I lived in the lap of luxury or anything, surrounded by Maric and Cailan’s close confidantes. I slept in the, and I quote, ‘ _most well-equipped stables east of Halamshiral’_ _._ The arl was the only one in the whole village who knew. He never even told his wife, Lady Isolde. _She_ thought I could have been his.”

“But you don’t look anything like him!” Athadra snorted a laugh. “I saw him talking to Duncan,” she explained. “I wouldn’t even say we’ve met, exactly. But I got a good look at his ugly nose.”

“Noticed that, too, did you?” Alistair managed half a smirk. “No, she either worried too much about her husband or she cared too much about the rumours. She’s Orlesian, so she cares way too much about courtly gossip. So off I was packed, out of the castle and down there to the Chantry when I was ten.” Athadra’s eyes widened; apparently, fate had decreed that the Chantry take possession of them at the same age.

“Did you ever see your father?” She asked, tilting her head. The question seemed to take him off his guard, and after a moment Alistair shook his head.

“No...not in the way you mean, I’m sure. I _saw_ him a couple of times, from a distance. But I never knew either of my parents. My mother was a serving girl in the castle that Maric fancied, or so Eamon told me. She...died. Giving birth to me.” He waited, evidently expecting condolences which Athadra didn’t know how to properly make. He continued after she nodded. “He kept trying to see me after I got sent down there, too, but I was furious with him. Threw away the only thing of my mother’s I ever had, too. An amulet. I threw it right at Arl Eamon’s head. It smashed into a thousand pieces and I’ve regretted it ever since.”

Athadra’s brow drew down. Tentatively she reached out and patted him on the shoulder, though she almost had to stand on her tiptoes to keep the gesture from looking ridiculous. “I _am_ sorry, Alistair,” she said after a moment. “Did any of the Wardens know?”

“Maker, no!” He shook his head. After a moment’s pause, he clasped her hand and released it. “Duncan was the only one who knew, and he only found out from Arl Eamon after my Joining. It was why he didn’t mind keeping me out of the fighting...Andraste’s holy pyre, it’s probably why Cailan _suggested_ it in the first place.”

“If Cailan knew, and obviously Maric knew, then guess who else has to know, too?” Athadra got an uneasy feeling, that Teyrn Loghain had gotten entirely the wrong idea about her addition to the plan--and its failure.

“Ahh, yes. _Loghain_. See, it’s always been bad news from the start. I didn’t pick my father, and I _certainly_ don’t want to be king. I’m just some half-witted bastard who was too lucky to die with the rest of the Grey Wardens.”

“And what does that make me?” Athadra asked, eyebrow cocked.

“Some half-witted bastard who was too lucky to die with the rest of the Grey Wardens? _Ow!_ ” Athadra punched him in the shoulder a bit harder than he was expecting, and he stumbled backward. But they both laughed, until she shook her head.

“This changes a lot,” she said after a moment. “I really wish you’d told me...but I understand why you didn’t. Come on, let’s go see if old Arl Crooknose has any aid to lend us. Here’s hoping he doesn’t arrest us on the spot to get in good with Loghain.”

Alistair shook his head, signalling the rest of the party to catch up. Garahel was the first to arrive, lightning-fast as always. “I hope you’re wrong about the first...I don’t want it to change anything; I just thought you should know. And I know you’re wrong about the second. Eamon Guerrin is Cailan’s uncle, brother to the late Queen Rowan, and traces his family name back to when Ferelden was a patchwork of seven or eight different teyrnirs. He’ll have no love for the bandit son of a farmer who turned his back on the king.”

Athadra hoped he was right, and she didn’t air her misgivings about exactly who bore the fault for Ostagar. Loghain had been a hero in the fight against Orlais, a commoner raised to the second-highest noble rank by his bravery and skill, while she was two steps away from being an apostate. Loghain’s promise to chase her to the end of Tevinter haunted her still. Yet she still breathed, and so she would fight, and keep fighting until she stopped breathing or until she won.

As it stood, she didn’t have too much time to stew in her doubts. Just past the abandoned cottage where she’d _helped_ Brenwyn, a young man with a shoddy bow came running, asking where the other reinforcements were. Apparently monsters had spewed forth from the castle and attacked the village each of the past two nights. They weren’t darkspawn from that villager’s description, but they might as well have been, for all the horror they caused. Morrigan and the Sten both grumbled, and Athadra felt uneasy about the whole thing, but Alistair insisted they follow the man down into the village proper; apparently anyone leaving from the gully would be attacked by the monsters anyway, no matter what time of day or night.

In the Chantry they met Bann Teagan, Eamon’s younger brother and landlord of a small slice of nearby country called Rainesfere. He was leading Redcliffe’s defence against the mysterious creatures, and was overjoyed when he recognized Alistair. Alistair tried committing them to stay the night and help, but he couldn’t resist the habit of deferring to Athadra’s judgment.

“You may save a lot of innocents, my friend,” Teagan implored her. She set aside that he wasn’t her _friend_ , and likely would never be, though he seemed amenable enough to Alistair’s version of Ostagar and sympathetic to the enormity of the Grey Wardens’ duty...a duty which Athadra felt further removed from with each step they took away from the Southern killing field.

“Where are the templars?” She asked, looking about the Chantry. She hadn’t seen a one; they’d been plentiful enough on her last pass through.

The bann sighed. “They formed the first line of defence these last two nights, but one by one they were overwhelmed, along with most of the knights not yet sent on Isolde’s mad quest.”

Athadra paused. “I saw Arl Eamon a week and a day before your man said the attacks began, and left Redcliffe that evening without incident. He seemed hale enough, then.”

“The sickness struck very rapidly indeed, the morning three days past. I left the castle that night in order to seek a healer, but Lady Isolde was mad with worry and dispatched Eamon’s knights with the remainder of our horses to hunt for Andraste’s Ashes the following day, and I felt I had to remain here in the village to help keep order. The next nightfall the monsters were upon us.” He looked haunted, but shook it off after a moment. “You’ll find the village’s mayor, Murdock, just outside with the militia. Ser Perth and what few knights have returned are stationed up the hill, by the windmill. The monsters normally cross the bridge, and so must pass through that chokepoint.”

Athadra’s stomach still knotted. “I don’t need this,” she said aloud, pinching the bridge of her nose. Morrigan laughed behind her and Garahel whined in sympathy, but her other two companions remained silent. “But I don’t see anything else for us to do. Fat lot of good these sodding treaties’ll do for us if the only nobleman we’ve a chance of wooing winds up dead, if he’s not done already.”

Teagan swallowed. “So, does that mean I can count on you, Warden?”

“Looks that way,” said Athadra. “But I’ll need some supplies. This armour’s shot halfway to the Void, and I’ll need some equipment.”

Teagan nodded. “Speak with Murdock; he knows the village far better than I, and may be able to supply you with what you need. Thank you, Warden, and may the Maker watch your steps.”

Athadra bit back a caustic reply, managing a nod. Since Teagan had taken over the area of the lectern, she had to search for this Chantry’s revered mother, who was offering a benediction to a gathered family in one of the building’s alcoves. She motioned to her companions to remain, and walked alone to the older woman, who interrupted her comfort to look at the elf attentively. Athadra felt the look out of place, until she realized that the revered mother must not realize that the Grey Warden who’d come to save the day was a filthy _mage_ , of all things. “Where do you keep your lyrium?” She asked bluntly.

The revered mother’s face spasmed momentarily, until she spied Morrigan off in the distance, and must have concluded from the woman’s shouldered stick that she was the only mage in the party. “We have no lyrium,” the priest claimed.

“Bullshit,” Athadra said, to the delight of the children present and the horror of their parents. The revered mother looked scandalized. “Listen, shemlen,” Athadra went on, relishing the flinch that her use of the elven slang for _human_ had caused. “I know you Chantry folk keep a stranglehold on the lyrium trade, to keep mages and their _handlers_ leashed.” It was one of the Chantry’s best-kept secrets, that they hooked their templars on lyrium, but Athadra had spent more than nine years of her life surrounded by templars every single day. She knew. “I know there aren’t any templars here, either. So I know you’ve got some laying around.” She could have grinned at the woman’s shifting features. Alistair tried to say something, but Morrigan whispered a warning that shut him up. “You want to live through the night, right?” She even waited for the woman to nod. “Then I need your lyrium. All of it. I willn’t ask again.” She held up her fist and concentrated until spirit energy coalesced into a flame-like ball.

The revered mother blanched and looked around desperately, but she realized there would be no templars to save her. “Very well!” She admitted at long last, and only then did Athadra let her summoned energy fade. Morrigan cackled behind her, clapping her hands. The children had taken refuge behind the adults, who prayed in hushed tones. “You will find it in the cellar, under lock and key. Here.” She fished the key out and nearly threw it at Athadra, signalling the trapdoor nearby. “Take it and _go_ , for the love of Andraste.”

“You’re welcome!” Called Athadra over her shoulder; she and Morrigan descended into the bowels of the building and decided to ransack the place. After all, the revered mother hadn’t told them _where_ in the cellar they’d find the potions; it turned out they were in a large, locked, heavy-doored cabinet at the far end. It was filled with shelves of the stuff, glowing brilliant blue, in various bottles. They filled two canvas sacks full, leaving not a single vial behind, and took a few of the books judged too _sensitive_ for the publicly-available shelves along with them, along with whatever coin or jewels they could find. Athadra missed codices and scrolls more than she could have imagined, and if she was going to risk her life for a revered mother of the town’s Chantry, she’d have her pick of its books, by the Void.

When they emerged with their takings, the revered mother would not look at either of them, but Teagan thanked Athadra and Alistair enthusiastically and seemed unconcerned for the priest’s feelings; evidently he judged his life worth more than a few potions and books. On their way out of the building, Athadra somehow got herself roped into looking for some girl’s little brother, of all things...but she planned on going through as many of the houses as she could get to, so she figured she could at least keep an ear out for the foolish child.

“Andraste’s open-toed shoes,” swore Alistair, once they’d emerged from the Chantry. “You’re trying to earn yourself the Void whether or not you actually manage to save the world, aren’t you, Athadra?” He shook his head when she actually _grinned_ at him, and they sought out the mayor, Murdock, to see about getting them some more supplies.


	12. Frost and Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athadra manages a small profit from Redcliffe's chaos, learns a bit more about Morrigan, and fights shoulder-to-shoulder with her new kith to defend the village through the long night.

“Don’t look at me like that, Alistair,” Athadra grunted as she wriggled her dagger out of the fat tavernkeep’s back. The blade had lodged between his ribs at his spine, killing him nearly instantly but making it demonically difficult to extract. She hadn’t turned around, but she could feel the other Warden glaring at her. The wound  _ squelched _ and she heaved a satisfied sigh, finally pulling the dagger free. It wiped nearly clean on the barman’s shirt, and she turned around, smirking at the tavernfull of eyes staring at her. “You all heard him; he said he were a coward, content to let you die in his place while he spent his nights swaddled up in his cellar. How many of your friends have died to keep him warm and safe?” That seemed to quell any protests before they could bud.

Alistair’s harsh expression began to fade in minutes, rather than days, and she smiled at him. “You’re going to talk  _ me _ into the Void at this rate,” he said, shaking his head.

She’d already spoken with Arl Howe’s hired elf; from the way he talked, and Zevran before him, Athadra was getting a really bad feeling about this Howe character, but there was little she could do at the moment except try to survive until the next. She’d managed to convince the elf to fight, unlike she’d been able to do with the dwarf called Dwyn down by the docks. He had looked too formidable to waste the effort of killing, however, and would get to live through the night without fighting for his life.

The red-haired tavern wench, called Bella, peeked from behind a post. “I guess that means I’m out of a job,” she lamented halfheartedly, though what she’d had to say about her boss while he still lived hadn’t given Athadra much of a reason to want to keep him that way. When he’d boasted about his tactic for surviving, and then sneered that she wouldn’t dare murder him in his own tavern, Athadra had had little choice.

“Maybe not,” the mage suggested after a moment’s pause. This tavern was really much nicer than the one she’d stayed at by the docks, after all...it would be a shame to let it go to waste. “If I’m going to stick around tonight and help you all defend your home, I’ll need a place to stay and store my things. This tavern have any rooms?” Bella nodded, but said they were unoccupied. “Good. After the battle’s over, you’ll be working for me, ‘stead of that bastard. And seeing as there’s a Blight on, I’m not like to hang around too long.”

The woman blinked. “Does that mean...I’ll be in charge?”

Athadra nodded. “When I’m not here, aye. You’ll have to run the place, make sure it don’t fall into the lake. We’ll talk more about it after we live through the next few nights. For now, get some food sent up to our rooms after we get there. I’m starving.” Bella nodded again, and gave them free reign of the tavern’s stockroom. Athadra was quite pleased with herself for orchestrating the impromptu business venture, even if the barmaid had looked a little scared of her during their exchange. She took keys for two of the tavern’s three rooms. Alistair helped her carry some of the more useful items out of the stockroom, taking care to step over the tavern’s former owner along the way. She gave the larger of the rooms to him and the Sten, and Morrigan offered no complaint at sharing the single-bed room with the elf until nightfall.

There was too little time before sunset to enjoy a nap, however, as inviting as that bed might have been; running about Redcliffe had taken the rest of the morning and much of the afternoon, mostly because Athadra kept pausing to shatter locks off of chests and rifle through their contents after Morrigan had frozen them. They’d found the boy, Bevin, and talked him out of his grandfather’s sword to replace the nicked bandit’s blade Alistair had worn since forgoing his Grey Warden longsword along with his armour. Instead the pair passed the time crafting some health poultices; Athadra also mixed up some simple poisons from the deathroot they’d gathered along the way, which she could spread over the warriors’ blades just before battle. She didn’t know if the concoction would affect walking corpses, which everyone claimed the monsters to be, but it was certainly worth a try.

Athadra and Morrigan also talked as they worked, mainly about their childhoods. Morrigan spoke of her first adventures out of the Wilds, about nearly getting caught by a Chasind man; she was able to convince Lothering’s guards that  _ he _ had been casting a spell upon  _ her. _

“That were very resourceful,” Athadra mused idly.

Morrigan huffed, smirking slightly. “Men are ever willing to believe two things about a woman; one, that she is weak, and two, that she finds him  _ attractive_ _._ ” She fairly hissed that last word, and Athadra nodded.

“Even if she denies both quite strongly, on occasion,” she added, and Morrigan’s expression flattened. Athadra sighed, and prompted her to go on with the story. Morrigan continued, somewhat reluctantly, talking of a jewel-encrusted mirror she’d managed to steal from a trading caravan not long after that incident. They shared a laugh over Flemeth’s  furious response, but Athadra took note of the longing in the witch’s eyes when she spoke of the shattered trinket.

“And what of you?” Morrigan asked, after a lull. “Have you any memories of your life before it was stolen from you?”

Athadra nodded. “I lived on a farm my mam and dad worked, owned by a shemlen, just North of Lothering.” Morrigan raised an eyebrow, but did not interrupt. “My grandad were a mage of the Dalish, but he took up with an alienage elf and settled down in the country, he said for love.” A smirk twisted over her face, and she wasn’t surprised when the witch shared a snort.

“Doubtless there is more to  _ that _ story,” the witch suggested.

“Likely. He never told me anything else, though, and I never thought to ask ‘till I were older, and by then I’d got taken.”

Morrigan made a face. “I’d never allow myself to be shackled like that.” She spoke softly, not trying to be unkind, but Athadra felt the sting nonetheless.

“Oh, I tried getting out three times. Got to the docks in Kinloch Hold, once, but they always dragged me back. Third time, First Enchanter Irving sat me down and told me I’d get the brand if I didn’t stop making so much trouble.” Morrigan hissed. Even in the Wilds, then, the Rite of Tranquility was known--a ritual to sever a mage’s connection to the Fade, and thereby to magic...as well as emotions and apparent volition. That was the fate that had awaited Jowan, that had motivated him to tear through the basement of the Circle Tower looking for his phylactery. “But I managed to escape after all,” Athadra said with a little snicker. “And I’m glad I survived...though the Chantry won’t be, by the time I’m done.”

“Oh?” Morrigan was just finishing up turning the last of their elfroot into a healing salve.

Athadra looked at her evenly. “Cailan’s dead. Believe it or not, Alistair’s his bastard brother.” She nearly whispered now, and Morrigan took that cue to keep her shock to herself. “That’s why I’m here, saving this rotting mudhole of a village; Arl Eamon has to live. He’s got to put the boy in Cailan’s place.”

Morrigan grimaced. “And the nation will be ruled by a half-wit. Marvelous.”

“Teagan were wrong, before,” Athadra pointed out. “When he said that Cailan wouldn’t risk the fate of the nation for his own glory. I were  _ there_ _._ He  _ did_ _._ Sodding fool took Duncan and the rest of the Wardens with him. Do you honestly think Alistair could do any  _ worse_ _?_ ” When Morrigan had no answer, Athadra smirked. “And when Alistair is king, he’s going to owe me.” The smirk bloomed into a grin, which slowly infected Morrigan, who admitted that such a fate might not be so terrible, at that.

Morrigan glanced at the South-facing window, spying the long shadows slowly climbing up the near cliff. “It appears we shall have to finish comparing the merits between coming up in the Wilds or on a sheepfold another time. ‘Twill be dark soon enough.” She sighed, and Athadra felt a small smile cross her lips.

“I’d like that,” said the Warden, as she gathered her things. “Talking again, at least. Maybe after we’ve dealt with these monsters and sent whatever caused them to the Void.” Morrigan did not seem to object to the prospect, which Athadra took as encouraging; certainly the witch had taken no pains to hide her displeasure whenever it cropped up on their journey thus far. Just then a knock sounded at the door, and Athadra bid Bella enter with the food. It was simple fare, bread and soup, but the Grey Warden attacked it with such abandon that it might have been an Orlesian spread. Morrigan claimed not to be hungry and so willingly surrendered her portion, and by the time Athadra had finished eating, dusk was just beginning to settle.

Athadra didn’t feel full, exactly, but she was no longer ravenous. She and Morrigan packed a pair of smaller bags apiece with essentials, mostly lyrium and poultices, and passed the poultice bags to the men when they met in the hall.

“You know, you never mentioned that Sten was such a great conversationalist,” Alistair quipped, and everyone chuckled when the Sten grunted in response. Alistair checked that his new sword was clear in its scabbard and shouldered his shield, and the Sten nodded at Athadra, noticing the blade strapped across her back. Her shoulders ached from carrying it, but she trusted the lyrium to get her through the night. The rest of her takings from the Chantry and the town she left locked up in the room, trusting Bella to see that the objects were kept safe.

“We’d better go,” she said with a sigh, and turned first. She whistled when she reached the floor, and Garahel turned away from the elf called Berwick, whom he’d been set to guard. The elf swallowed hard and strung his bow, rising to leave with the rest of them. The last remnants of Redcliffe’s militia filed out behind them, parting with Athadra’s band immediately; they would take up positions around the Chantry to protect the infirm holed up there, while Athadra, Berwick and the haphazard company she’d collected since Ostagar would form the front line against the creatures.

She made it to Ser Perth and his half-dozen knights just as the last rays of sunlight filtered past the bridge. No one spoke, not even Alistair; the barely-contained fear rolling off of the men who’d fought this battle before was palpable. Athadra managed a cynical laugh when Garahel sauntered over to a nearby tree and marked it as his territory, but even the dog’s mood was serious. Athadra shrugged inside her armour; the leather had been repaired and re-worked by the village’s blacksmith, Owen. It fit so comfortably that Athadra considered keeping the promise that she’d paid him with, to look for his missing daughter in the castle.  Even the Sten’s armour had been refitted, and sat much better across the man’s enormous frame.

The Warden unshouldered her flatblade and removed the cloth, passing the last few moments of evening by honing its edge. Many of the knights, Alistair, and the Sten saw fit to do the same, and soon the small plateau was  _ hissing _ with stone scraping over metal. Finally Ser Perth let out a  _ whoop_ _,_ and Athadra looked to the bridge, holding back a gasp at the green-hued cloud she saw billowing out of the castle and leeching its way across the gap. The knight pitched a torch into a heap of barrels, crates, and palisades which straddled the path from the castle’s bridge down to the village proper. The lot had been doused in oil during Athadra’s coup in the tavern earlier, and the nature of the path meant that the monsters would have to run through the flames or climb down the sheer face of the cliff the road cut through.

Run through the flames they did, howling and ravening. Alistair gasped, and Athadra could recognize the ruined faces of what must have been villagers. Many had simple weapons, some even with armour, and they were slowed but little by the flames, though fire caught on their clothes and melted their flesh. Athadra’s eyes and ears focused straight ahead; for several moments, she lost all sense of her companions as she leapt into the fray, swinging her flatblade in wide arcs. She saw a few ghouls in templar armour passing through the burning oil, and forged her way through the corpses until she met them and cut them down. Her focus lifted slightly when she realized the last of the fiends had fallen, and she limped back toward the line, her face and arms stinging from burns.

A new wave of corpses descended upon them, and another. Each time Athadra’s company fought them to the bonfire, aided by Berwick’s arrows and Ser Perth’s knights holding their flanks. Morrigan managed to freeze many of the monsters, and Athadra sundered them into a thousand pieces as though they were locks. Before she knew it, she was laughing, trading barbs with Alistair about who’d downed more. Even the Sten was calling out battle cries in his own tongue. Whatever guided the corpses must have been dissatisfied, for after that third failed attempt, a messenger from below told of ghouls emerging from the lake to assault the village directly.

Athadra told Ser Perth to hold his men at the chokepoint, even Berwick, and took her band down the winding path of the hill, all the way to the steps of the Chantry itself. She fought alongside Murdock and the militia, who’d already taken a few casualties. The arrival of the Wardens, Morrigan, and the Sten halted the militia’s retreat, though, and together they pushed the corpses back to the docks. For hours they fought to save Redcliffe, or what remained of it, until Athadra felt woozy from exertion and from imbibing too much lyrium. Just before daybreak the attack halted, and the few monsters that remained turned back to the water; dawn saw them climbing up the finger-island all the way back to the castle.

Fighting the night through was more than worth the satisfaction Athadra felt as the revered mother proclaimed the village saved, her voice shaky as she praised the mage...though, of course, the Chantrywoman didn’t mention the role of magic in giving the villagers their lives. Teagan pronounced the victory complete enough to lead a sortie into the castle itself, which was set to begin at midday--after the saviours of Redcliffe claimed a few hours’ rest from their labours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in updating; time got away from me this week. Next chapter should be up by Monday night!


	13. Temptation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arlessa Isolde makes the most difficult choice a mother can face, after delaying far too long. Thrown once more into the Fade, Athadra confronts every Circle mage's worst fear in order to save Eamon's son, but the demon who awaits her has many tricks to employ; will the Warden be able to survive, let alone resist?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is fairly long, and contains fairly explicit gore and minor character death, as well as semi-explicit sexuality. If either of those make the reader uncomfortable, a short synopsis covering the important plot points is provided in the end notes.

“I concur; ‘tis most definitely a demon.” Morrigan sounded slightly disgusted, just as Athadra felt. They had spent the better part of a day fighting their way through the castle, putting down risen corpses as well as Shades and other creatures from the Fade, only to find out that the  _ entire affair _ had been caused by Isolde and Eamon’s son, Connor. Which had involved more lies on the arlessa’s part than Athadra could keep track of, lies which had drawn Bann Teagan into the castle alone, and had nearly gotten the man killed. Isolde moaned at hearing the awful news that her son was possessed; she seemed much more distraught over that fact than for all of the mothers in Redcliffe who would never see their sons or daughters again.

Alistair coughed. “Could it have been the maleficar? Jowan?”

Athadra and Morrigan both rolled their eyes and, nearly simultaneously, said “No!” The Warden rounded on her counterpart. “Alistair, look at us. What do you see?” He raised an eyebrow, but had nothing witty to say. “Or more specifically, what do you  _ not _ see? Imagine that we’d been fighting darkspawn for the last twenty-odd hours without a bath.”

Comprehension slowly dawned on him. “We’d all be covered in blood,” he admitted. “Yet there’s hardly a speck on any of us.”

Morrigan huffed. “Certainly took long enough. Raising corpses is of the Spirit School, completely within the purview of your beloved Chantry. Given Athadra’s affinity, I’d not be surprised if she learned how, eventually.” Athadra’s expression said plainly enough that  _ that _ would be unlikely, at best.

“Then why do they teach templars to look for rising corpses as a sign of corruption?”

Athadra shrugged. “Even the most talented enchanter can only bind one or two spirits to the freshly-dead, and even then for a few hours at most. Summoning so many spirits for so long, not to mention the Shades in their raw form...that takes a demon. And where do most blood mages learn the craft from?”

Alistair’s face twitched when she called blood magic a  _ craft_, but he didn’t pursue that particular thought. “I...guess I never really thought about it before, but that makes some sense.”

“That  _ blood mage _ is still responsible for this! He’s the one who summoned the demon!” Isolde’s voice rang out across the hall, causing Athadra to wince. She motioned to Teagan, who attempted to console the woman while the Wardens’ party set forth their options.

The Sten growled. “The boy has caused this death; he should be held responsible for it. Imprisoned in your Circle without his tongue at the very least.”

“I wouldn’t normally suggest  _ killing a child_,” Alistair said lightly, out of Isolde’s hearing. “But it doesn’t look like we have a choice, unless we can get up to the Circle...which, even if Athadra  _ didn’t _ look like she would cut my throat open before I could ask it of her, I don’t think we have enough time. If they could be any help to begin with, that is.”

Alistair jumped at a rustling beside them. “There is...another option,” the rogue mage, Jowan, said. Athadra’s lips parted in shock to see him _ still here_, after she’d let him out of the dungeons and told him to flee for his life. According to him, Teyrn Loghain had caught him nearby in the bannorn, and given him the choice between  _ serving his country _ and dying for his crimes. Athadra certainly knew what  _ she _ had done, when presented with a similar choice. Jowan held up is hands. “I had to try and help,” he said in his mid-pitched whine, to forestall the elf’s interruption. He hesitated, and everyone looked at him expectantly, but when he tried to speak again a scream erupted from near the hearth.

“You!” Isolde marched over to the party, Teagan reluctantly following. “You did this to my son!” Tears were streaming down her face. Athadra bit back the question of how many tears had been shed for all of the people her son had killed. The bann looked at Athadra as if for help in controlling his brother’s wife, but the young Warden could only roll her eyes.

“I didn’t, I--oh, what’s the use?” Jowan breathed a heavy sigh. “I  did poison the arl, and that might be what caused Connor to seek out...help. The kind a demon might offer. It would have been attracted to the power of his feeling--a spirit of fear, or desire, perhaps.”

Athadra heaved a sigh. “This isn’t  _ helping _ us, Jowan. If you have your alternative, speak it now; otherwise, I’m going to go room by room until I find the little abomination and make sure it can’t kill any more  _ innocents_.” That last she said with a pointed glance to Teagan, whose reply was swallowed up by Isolde’s wailing. The woman fell to her knees in front of the elf, clasping the bottom of Athadra’s cuirass, begging for her son’s life.

Jowan nearly had to shout to be heard over the arlessa. “Like I said, there is another option. I loathe offering it, though I can see no other choice. There is a ritual which can allow a mage to enter the Fade for an indeterminate amount of time.” He hesitated for just a moment, long enough for Athadra to guess at what the ritual might entail. “It requires life energy to power...quite a bit of it. All of it, in fact.”

Alistair moaned. “More blood magic...didn’t that start this whole mess in the first place?” He shook his head with a resigned sigh. “Couldn’t you take some blood from a few people?”

“No,” said Jowan. He looked near tears himself. “The ritual is very specific, and if more than one person is engaged as the source...they will all die.”

Teagan spoke up for the first time since being released from the demon’s thrall. “Isn’t the demon within the boy?”

“Not physically,” Jowan replied. “Otherwise he’d have turned into something a lot more horrifying than corpses, himself. No,” he said a bit more loudly, to cover Isolde’s renewed wails. “A strong enough mage can enter the Fade and seek out this demon. I can’t do it because I’ll be performing the ritual. If the demon dies in the Fade, Connor will be freed here.” He looked pointedly from Athadra to Morrigan.

The Wilds-born witch clicked her tongue, and Athadra found she could not ask the woman to face down a demon to save a child who’d already wrought so much destruction as it was. “I will do it,” the Warden said after a long moment’s pause.

“But someone must die,” Teagan said slowly. “Someone must be sacrificed?”

Isolde rose to her knees, wiping her eyes. “I will be the one! Let me be the sacrifice.” Her expression looked wild. Teagan raised a protest, claiming that Eamon would never allow it, but she cut him short. “Eamon is not here,  _ Teagan _ ,” she said, stressing the bann’s name in her Orlesian accent as she climbed to her feet. “And if I must die so that my son can live, my choice is clear. I cannot ask anyone to stand in my place.”

Not even Alistair had anything to say to counter that; for her part, Athadra suppressed the grim smile that threatened.  _ Not such a coward after all_, the Warden thought to herself. “Very well,” she said aloud, looking from Jowan to Isolde. Alistair and the Sten looked displeased, while Morrigan seemed aloof, but none argued. Garahel merely whined, expressing his concern by leaning heavily on Athadra’s legs, as though realizing the danger she was putting herself in. She scratched the dog’s ears and told him she’d be alright; she wished she could have believed that. “Prepare yourselves.”

Jowan brought them to the centre of the hall and gathered ashes from the hearth’s grate. These he spread in a wide, looping figure-eight that enclosed the arlessa and the Warden on opposite sides of the ashline. Isolde’s circle was large enough for her to kneel, and she began praying. Jowan held out his hand to Athadra, and without having to be told, she drew one of her daggers and passed it to him, making certain that she kept a firm grip on the handle of her flatblade; the weapons would not truly follow her into the Fade, but her mind’s impressions of them would, and none but very rare and dangerous mages could truly shape the Fade at their own will once there.

Jowan began a low chant to help him guide his thoughts and energies as he walked around the ashen figure. First he cut across his palm, dripping his own blood over the ash, and then across his wrist, then higher on the meat of his forearm. When he’d closed the ashen trail over in his own blood he called out, pointing his own wounded limb at Isolde. Her head shot back and her shoulders fell, and she lifted off the ground by an unseen force. The dagger flew through the air, the blade scraping between her collarbones as it pierced her throat. Her blood erupted around the knife, tearing from her with such force that it shred through her flesh and the very clothes she wore. Isolde’s life swirled around her in a crimson aura until her floating body could barely be seen, and then Jowan yelled loudly; the arlessa’s lifeblood fled her body, striking Athadra’s face and chest. The Warden remembered hearing Isolde fall and Teagan cry out, but her own world went black an instant later.

The Fade took shape in the blackness around her, the air thick, the ground knotted and twisted. Cabinets, tables, and other mortal artifacts floated around her, and she realized that she was in some muddled vision of a bedroom, crossed with an open field and a hilly wood. Such disjointed scenes occupying the same space were typical of the Fade, in her brief experience. She checked herself; her light armour was much the same, and her sword felt real enough at her back...and sure enough, only her right hip sported a dagger, the other sheath empty. The ground beneath her boots felt as solid as any she’d tread, though the paths she saw looped and sloped impossibly, and she recalled that  _ down _ was a mutable concept for the creatures who dwelt here.

It did not take her long to get her bearings, and soon Athadra was conversing with the trapped spirit of Arl Eamon. In the shadow of death he paid her little more attention than he had in full health, though, and she was unable to convince him that she was trying to help his son, though she didn’t make much of an attempt to do so. Instead she moved on, and found herself phasing through portals from island to island in the seemingly-unending sea of Eamon’s dreamscape. On each island dwelt a copycat of the boy, Connor, who invariably shifted into a demon and attacked her. The first time the demon struck alone, and though Athadra’s heart pounded as quickly as it had when she’d had her Harrowing, she managed to dispatch it with relative ease. The next three such encounters saw more demonic underlings appearing in increasing numbers, including Rage Demons and then Shades, which were more difficult to fight off all at once. Athadra found herself relying more on her raw magic than her sword, and for the first time since Ostagar she began to lament not replacing her lost stave, for the focus it could bring to her power.

Finally, after what felt like hours trading barbs and then blows with demons, Athadra came to an island with no exit. Even here, she felt bone-deep exhaustion from having fought all through the previous night and much of the last day in the real world, with only a few hours’ rest. Her exertions in the Fade tapped at her dwindling reserves of energy just as certainly as if she’d kept fighting in the castle. As she approached the circle of floating bookshelves which looked to be the centre of the island, Athadra could feel her hands twitching inside of her leather gloves, and her breath caught.

The true demon was waiting for her this time, not bothering to disguise itself as Connor. It was a Desire Demon, which was known for changing its physical shape to coincide with what its observer most wanted. This demon had taken a woman’s curves, though its skin was purple and its legs ended in cloven hooves. Horns graced its head, and its hair seemed half-consumed by black spirit-flames. It spread its clawed hands wide in a gesture of peace, which Athadra couldn’t help but notice left its torso open to her scrutiny. Athadra felt her stomach tighten, unable to keep her eyes from glancing over the creature even as her lessons from the Circle loomed in the back of her mind.

“Very well,” said the demon, its voice echoing subtly from all directions. “You have proven your power. I admit that even here, in the crux of my domain, I have no desire to engage it again. Nor should you be so eager to engage mine,” it-- _ she_, Athadra found herself thinking, said. The demon’s hands returned to her body, running slowly across her torso, as though she couldn’t resist giving herself the sensation. “Might we...converse, instead?”

As any mage of the Circle, Athadra’s first instinct was to scoff, which she barely managed to suppress. “How might I trust anything you promise?” Her tone was as even as she could make it, caught between disgust and curiosity and something much deeper than either.

The demon laughed, low in her throat. “A bargain struck is a bargain kept. That is the way of our kind, unlike yours. It  _ cannot _ be otherwise. Are you...interested?”

“...I’m listening,” Athadra heard herself say. She swallowed with difficulty, but could not look away, and when her breath caught again, she couldn’t claim it was solely from exhaustion. She could feel the creature’s strength radiating outward, warping the Fade near them to suit her purposes, and the Warden wasn’t at all certain that she’d be able to survive a direct confrontation with her in this place. “Why should I truck with you, demon?”

The demon smiled lasciviously, licking her lips and groaning when her claw-tipped fingers snuck between her thighs. “Because I have something you  _ desire _ , while you have nothing I wish to take from you.” She hissed, a blissful smile crossing her sharp features, and she never broke Athadra’s gaze. “So many...turn to us when they have nothing but their lives to offer. Or you are thrown to us by your elders as a test.” The demon’s husky voice rasped a laugh, her right hand slipping slowly up her flank to cup at her breast. She wasn’t naked, precisely, but what little lace and jewellery the creature did wear hid nothing Athadra might wish to see.

Athadra blinked and shook her head, trying to ignore the demon’s performance, even as she felt heat blossoming between her own thighs...another sensation she hadn’t felt since before Ostagar. “How is that managed?” She asked, curiosity breaking through the mixture of fatigue and lust that was taking most of her energy to combat.

“It is a bargain, of course,” the demon answered readily. By now her hips were rocking where she stood, her torso undulating in slow waves as her fingers did their work; one hand remained between her legs while the other roamed freely, pawing at her belly, chest, and neck. “The old ones offer us morsels, and we rid them of weaklings. But you knew that already, delicious little mortal.” The creature’s voice dripped with pleasure, but those dark eyes never blinked, never wavering in their attention. That helped Athadra maintain the demon’s gaze. When the mage nodded, the demon tensed, her breath hitching in a series of growling gasps. After a long moment the demon pulled her fingers from her core, slowly dragging them up the curve of her belly and between her breasts, all the way up to her mouth, and she licked her own nectar from them with a pleased sigh.

Athadra’s hands flexed open and closed, her eyes following that glistening trail down the demon’s neck and body. A shudder of sheer  _ need _ passed over her, curling her toes and stoking her breath, and she feared that she was already lost. Very slowly she forced her eyes to march back up the demon’s torso until their eyes locked again, purple level with crimson. “Make your offer,” she panted, loathing herself as she said it.

The demon’s hands continued roaming wherever they would, the creature’s energy unsapped by the display. Her smile deepened. “You require the boy’s father, do you not?” She waited the elf’s nod. “That presents me a problem, as the father is the key to the boy, at least for the moment...but what is a moment in the Fade, precisely?” Her horned head tilted and she  _ hummed _ to herself. “I propose a compromise,” she sighed. “I will leave the boy--for now. A foothold shall remain for me to exploit  _ far _ in the future, after whatever business you have with the father is longsince concluded. In exchange, the father shall remain trapped here.”

“Can you...not heal him?” The elf tried to keep her focus, her brow drawing down. 

“No,” the demon said. “And if I release him, he will die. If he is to be cured, it will have to be through mortal means. Is that not enough to... _ entice _ you?” Her claws dragged up her flank again, drawing a low gasp from her own throat.

Suddenly Athadra remembered hearing that sort of gasp before, rasping in her ear. The templar set to guard her had cornered her in her cell and sapped her mana with a technique his order termed a  _ Holy Smite _ , which turned mages’ own magic against them and left them too weak to evade capture. Athadra’s belly went cold at the memory, and she finally broke her gaze away from the demon. The erotic display halted at once, but the creature didn’t take a hostile stance just yet.

“I see,” she said, not without some measure of sympathy. “Do you wish the power to make certain that no templar can ever disarm you again?”

Athadra considered for a moment, which might well have been half an Age in the Fade. Finally she turned back to the demon, her face set against the fear and self-loathing she felt bubbling within her. “Yes,” she hissed, and she felt warm tears trickling down her cheeks. “I’ll give you the boy. You give me his dad, and you teach me the art that the templars cannot touch...and you promise never to see me again, not to seek me out, neither to possess me nor for idle talk; and not to send any other demons after me. Ever.”

It was the demon’s turn to hesitate. Her eyes narrowed and her lips turned down, and for a moment Athadra feared she might have to truly face the creature after all...but at the last heartbeat before the Warden went for her flatblade, the demon before her nodded. “It is a bargain, then. Approach.” She stretched out her hand, and a small knife materialized there. Athadra steeled herself and stepped forward, her heart thudding more urgently even than when she’d taken up the chalice for her Joining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isolde sacrifices herself to Jowan's ritual, which sends Athadra into the Fade. Once there, Athadra fights her way to the centre of the demon's domain, and is eventually convinced to trade the demon's life for Arl Eamon's stasis and Connor's (temporary) freedom; Athadra also learns the secrets of blood magic from the demon on her own terms.


	14. Contingencies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coming to grips with what she's done, Athadra has a serious discussion with Jowan for perhaps the final time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a bit shorter to make up for the unusual length of the previous one.

Athadra woke suddenly, her face feeling warm and wet. For a heartbeat she thought she might still be covered in Lady Isolde’s blood, that the eon she’d spent in the Fade had passed in a heartbeat in the waking world, but instead she lay in an enormous bed with a warm fire burning nearby, and a large mabari hound licking her face. With a cackle she lunged up, tackling the hound back into the mattress and trading him lick for lick. Soon they were howling and yapping, nearly rolling off the bed as they wrestled.

“Ugh. We’ll have to bathe you again to get the fleas off,” drawled the Wilds-witch in a bored tone, from a chair in the corner. Athadra froze mid-snarl, glancing up at the woman, who couldn’t hide a satisfied smile.

Garahel wriggled from her grasp and hopped down from the bed, sitting and panting and generally looking far too pleased with himself. Athadra looked around the large room and saw no one else. “How long were I out for?”

“In the Fade?” Morrigan arched an eyebrow. “More than a day. You passed into normal sleep late last eve, after the boy woke, and have slumbered into the midmorning now.” Her smile faltered briefly. “Alistair feared you might have become possessed yourself, but your Circle friend and I managed to allay his doubts. Is the demon slain?”

Athadra drew a long breath. “No.”

Morrigan frowned, but looked unsurprised. “We must assure the templar that it has been. What did you offer in exchange for its hold on the child?”

The Warden remembered little of her trip to the dreamworld, but she would never forget the lessons the demon taught her there. “She-- _ it_,” she corrected herself when Morrigan’s brow arched sharply. “It will leave the boy for the nonce, and may return someday, after Eamon’s healed and Connor’s likely packed off to the Circle.”

“And what did you demand in your turn?” Morrigan’s tone was flat, and Athadra began to feel a bit uneasy with her presence, realizing the witch mightn’t have waited for her to wake simply out of worry.

“It’ll keep the arl alive until I can find a way to cure him...and it will never try to possess me. For the sake of argument, let’s say that  _ my friend _ is no longer the only maleficar in the castle.” Athadra wasn’t wearing her arms nor her armour, rather a simple gown slobbered with mabari drool, but she cleared her mind in case her companion did not take the revelation well.

Morrigan’s face darkened as though with disappointment, and Athadra felt a small pang of guilt. “You made sure it understood this? That ‘twas not invited into your mind, not ever?”

Athadra nodded emphatically. “I banished it and barred it from chasing me with its underlings, and when I learned all it could teach me, it showed me its true form.” She shuddered; the shrivelled husk at the core of the demon’s projection would have haunted her dreams for sure, if she could not have counted on darkspawn-themed nightmares.

After a pause, Morrigan’s face brightened slightly. “I am...pleased that you emerged relatively unscathed from the deal. I would not have liked to have never found out how you were caught, lo these many years ago.” She spared the Warden a small smile, and Athadra caught a glance of the delicate curve of her neck, and found herself smiling in return.

Just then a small knock sounded on the door. “Do come in!” Morrigan called, after rolling her eyes. “She is quite awake!” The door burst open, and Athadra had to hide her own disappointment behind a half-cocked smile.

“Thank the Maker you’re alive!” Alistair breathed a sigh; he was out of his armour as well, but he seemed undiminished by the plainer garb. “I thought that you might...that I would have to...” He stopped short and looked down, rubbing his neck.

He reminded Athadra of Cullen, then; the young templar she’d shared subtle glances with as an apprentice, who’d been chosen as the sword at her neck during her Harrowing likely for that very reason. She’d felt sorry for him, then, and had hardly thought of him after Jowan’s escape. “I know, Alistair,” she said, sounding more tired than she felt. “All in all, I think it went rather well. Certainly better than it could have.”

The tall Warden recovered himself and regained her gaze. “I...yes, I suppose it did, at that. I wish there’d been some other way, but I doubt any other choice would have ended in Isolde living much longer, not to mention the rest of the village. Owen sends his thanks, by the way, for saving his daughter. Says you can have your pick of armour when you’re feeling up to it.” He spared her a grin. “You really did save a lot of people, whether you wanted to or not. You know that, right?”

Athadra felt more relieved than she’d thought that Alistair had wound up taking her decision to sacrifice the arlessa so well. She saw that Morrigan had slipped away and frowned momentarily. “What happened to Jowan?” She asked, and her smirk returned when a sour look passed over her fellow Grey Warden’s face; such an expression could only mean that the blood mage yet lived.

“He’s back in his cell, with some magic-suppressing manacles. Just in case the demon really  _ did _ have some extra help. Why?”

The mage climbed out of bed and stroked over her hound’s back. “I want to see him. He and I have some unfinished business to settle.” The look on her face told Alistair that she didn’t want to be followed. “And after that, I plan on eating everything in the castle’s larder. I’m  _starving_. _Again_. ”

“Like a mabari...” Alistair said with a wink, but he moved aside. The elf brushed past him and got her bearings; now that the castle was no longer under assault, harangued-looking servants were about, trying to clean up all traces that such evil had ever been unleashed. She learned from one of them that she was on the second floor, and so she perused the hallways easily, testing doors here and there. Near the throne room she entered the sick arl’s study, her deft fingers swiping a few trinkets that she planned on selling or simply returning to Eamon or Teagan as ‘salvage’ from the attack. She paused when her hand closed over an amulet that had obviously been meticulously repaired, and she recalled Alistair’s story of throwing his mother’s keepsake against a wall. After hesitating a moment, Athadra placed it in a special pocket to give to the other Warden later, perhaps to soften the blow that would come of her use of forbidden magics.

Finally she made it to the nearly-unoccupied dungeons; Garahel padded along beside her, and she felt grateful that he couldn’t speak. Athadra paused just before Jowan’s cell, looking around and listening intently for any sound, even for any spies behind the walls. If the wrong ears heard her speak plainly, it would mean her death even more certainly than if she were to waltz directly into Loghain’s council chambers with a noose already cinched about her neck. Her heart thudded more urgently and she stepped forward.

Jowan looked a wreck. They hadn’t changed his robes, which were stained with muck and blood and days of sweat. His deep brown hair hung in greasy ropes about his face, and despite the bristle of stubble, or perhaps because of it, that face looked hollow. “Athadra...” he called with a small smile. “You came. I prayed you would.”

Athadra’s head tilted. “You still pray?”

Jowan buried his face in his hands, and she could see they were shackled together in rune-etched grey iron. “Every day,” he replied, his voice muffled by his palms. “If only I’d taken my fate, then my Lily would still be free and I wouldn’t have to be so afraid.” He spoke of the Chantry initiate that he’d somehow managed to seduce, or who’d seduced him; Athadra never quite sorted that out after she’d foolishly agreed to help them escape. It had happened only a few scant weeks before, but it felt like a lifetime ago for the Warden.

Her brow drew down. “Jowan, there is nothing to fear. There is no Maker; there never were any.” When he looked up at her, she could see that he wept, though he made no sound about it. “The Black City were never golden, neither. And you could escape this cell right now, and those cuffs, couldn’t you?” The bound mage’s lips moved very faintly, and Athadra realized he was repeating a passage from the Chant of Light. “Answer me, dammit!”

When the Warden approached the bars, Jowan reluctantly nodded. “I suppose...I could, if I had the life force left in me. I’ve not eaten since before sending you into the Fade, and that took no small amount of my own blood, either.” He closed his eyes and opened them slowly. “How did you know?” Athadra looked at him for a long moment. “Oh, Athadra...no,” He shook his head violently. “You were supposed to kill the demon!”

She reached through the bars and grabbed him by the scruff of his soiled robes, pulling him face-to-face with her, cold steel bars between them. “I were,” she hissed. “And maybe I might have done, if I hadn’t cut and carved my way through half a hundred dead bodies that your little apprentice boy conjured up right before you sent me to fight her alone.” Jowan’s lips parted, but before he could argue she snarled, pushing him violently back. Garahel growled low by her side, but he didn’t bark.

“I’m sor--sorry, Athadra,” Jowan stuttered. “I--”

“Shut up, Jowan,” the Warden said evenly. “I need to know if it can be taught, mage to mage.” After a long pause, Jowan nodded. “Good. Now come back and listen  _ closely_.” She waited for him to scramble up to his feet and come within whispering distance. He looked as scared as she’d ever seen him. “If any of the people you saw in the chamber ever ask you where I got it, you tell them I took it from you today. Only them--the Qunari, the witch, and the big blond Warden.” He nodded again. “Tell anyone else, or tell them the truth, and I promise you I will drag you to the Void with me. Understand?”

“I understand,” Jowan breathed, his dirty face streaked by tears. “You will regret it, Athadra. It...changes you.”

The Warden stepped away from the bars, but held his gaze. “I think it already has,” she mused, thinking back on how Grey Wardens were made.

When she turned to go, Jowan heaved a cough. “Athadra...” he called, pressing his face against the bars. “Were we ever friends?”

The Warden paused, looking back over her shoulder. “Once, aye.” She nodded, but did not smile, and a handful of moments later she was back in the inviting corridors of the castle proper.


	15. Possibilities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the castle staff cleaning up, Athadra dines privily with Teagan, who's a bit too keen to know what might happen to Eamon's heir. The Wardens are also rejoined by the sojourning rogues, who have news that might help them revive the arl.

Dinner that night was a somber affair; Teagan’s finery was tinged in black, here and there, though Athadra noticed that he was in a mourning deeper than a brother-in-law might have been expected to hold. The clues were subtle; a catch in his voice as he ordered more wine or tried to ply her for conversation, the red rimming of his eyes, the slight sallowness of his skin which suggested lack of sleep. Athadra felt a bit guilty at enjoying the relative bounty of the bann’s table, though he’d brooked no argument when he’d invited her to sup with him privately shortly after she’d returned from her  _ lesson _ with Jowan. As good as its word, the demon’s traces lingered on, keeping Arl Eamon in stasis, though the Circle’s healer failed at expunging the poison from the arl’s body. Teagan could only reiterate the need to procure the Urn of Sacred Ashes, as Isolde had before him.

“At least Connor lives,” said the bann, heaving a sigh. “Though the boy will have to be sent up to the Circle, now that Isolde is...gone.”

The Warden looked down at her plate, trying to forget the pain which had spasmed across Teagan’s features with that last word. “I’m sorry,” was all she could say in reply, in between mouthfuls of the rich food.

“You have nothing to apologize for, my lady,” Teagan said, attempting to smile. “Except possibly for staining your dress. Does Connor have such ill manners to look forward to?”

Athadra swallowed and located the spot, frowning to herself. “Ah.” She gave the offending mark a perfunctory swipe with a kerchief and swallowed another bite before regarding her host. “No, no...it’s a Warden thing, not a Circle thing. The smell of burning darkspawn does wonders for the appetite.”

The bann actually managed a small smile, then. “So they do teach courtesies in the tower?”

“Table manners, more like...mostly to keep the robes clean, I’d wager.” Athadra sat back only when her plate was spotlessly clean, though she hadn’t touched her wine. Even within the depths of Redcliffe’s castle, she didn’t want to chance getting caught unawares...or perhaps especially there, considering the state it’d been in when she’d first arrived. “It...will be bad. For him.”

Teagan’s expression crashed into its lined frown once more. “Is it such an awful fate?”

“Not for some,” Athadra admitted, distaste evident. “Those what got taken when they were little more than babes in arms, whose memories are vague to start with and fade after a few years surrounded by stone walls with high, high windows.” Athadra looked away from the man’s pain, but continued speaking. “But Connor’s a big lad, halfway to a man grown. He loved his dad so much that he let a demon in, which means he’s a strong mage with a weak will, and that means the templars’ll probably wind up gutting or tranquing him before too long.”

Teagan groaned and shook his head. After a moment he looked up again. “ _ Tranquing_? What manner of demonry is that?”

Athadra blinked, and realized that he didn’t know. It didn’t surprise her, though. She suspected the Rite was almost as secret as templars’ use of lyrium, at least outside the Circle and the Chantry. “It’s a word apprentices use as shorthand, for when a mage undergoes the Rite of Tranquility.” Teagan raised an eyebrow, confirming his ignorance. “It’s a very secret ritual, but I suspect it involves binding the victim’s magic and then killing them in the Fade--the realm of dreams, where spirits live and mages can walk.”

“Is it fatal in the waking world, as well?” Teagan seemed honestly curious, and Athadra bit back the retort that a magic ritual was unnecessary for a simple execution.

The Warden shook her head. “Not in the sense you’re thinking of, at least not with the ritual. Mages who’ve undergone the Rite are called Tranquil. Their connection to the Fade is cut off, and their emotions and passions die along with their Fade-selves. It’s supposed to render them invisible to demons, and some mages choose that fate, if they think they’re too weak of will to face them down. Others are not given a choice.”

It took Teagan another minute to collect himself. “And there are these Tranquil mages about the Circle Tower?”

“In abundance,” Athadra answered at once. “They are marked by the Chantry’s sunburst, burned into their foreheads, and they do the bulk of the work for the Circle. No task is too low or too difficult for someone with no aspirations.”

“You make them sound like slaves,” Teagan pointed out.

Athadra shook her head. “Slaves are held against their will, or sometimes coerced into desiring their enslavement. Tranquil  have no will to oppress or to convince, as far as I can tell. Their quarters have no bookshelves, and I’ve only ever seen them reading manuals to help them learn a task they’ve been assigned.”

The bann looked sick, and pushed away his unfinished plate. “This fate awaits him?”

“If you send him to the Circle, aye. Or one day he’ll be dragged from his bed, taken to the top of the tower, and sent to face off against a demon to test his resolve. If they think he’s taking too long, they’ll get suspicious, like Alistair did with me...but he won’t have any friends around to save him from the blade.”

“I would not have let Alistair kill you,” Teagan said. “It would have taken all meaning from Isolde’s sacrifice.”

“Thank you, for that.” Athadra did not think that her fellow Warden would have seriously tried to kill her, but she was glad that he’d been the only one in the room thinking about it. “As for Connor,” she said, “he might survive his Harrowing--the confrontation with the demon I mentioned before--and then he couldn’t be made Tranquil, by Chantry law. So any sign that he might be possessed could have only one outcome.”

Teagan nodded, looking no less grim. “So they would kill him, even on suspicion?”

Athadra looked around her. “The boy has already had a demon within him. He might hide that from the tintops, but that makes it more likely another demon will sniff him out in his dreams, or when he’s scared.” She had no idea if  _ that _ was true, but she wanted to plant the idea in the bann’s mind in case he ever heard of Connor getting possessed again. “The templars in the Circle Tower won’t be so tolerant of corpses and abominations as Alistair is--they’ll cut the lad’s throat at the first sign, rather than risking more mages to face down the demon in the Fade, who might themselves come under its influence.”

“So m-- _the _ boy, he has no hope?” Teagan raised both eyebrows now, and Athadra thought she detected a hint of a blush behind his yellowed cheeks.

She shrugged. “He may. There is some small chance that he’ll resist his fears and temptations, that he’ll pass his Harrowing and live out his years in that great stone spear, flinging spells off the walls and teaching apprentices to do the same. They might even let him out to be a healer at a large court, where he’ll have just a templar or two watching him instead of a few dozen. But there are more than a hundred mages in Ferelden, and maybe half a dozen noble houses who can afford a healer, plus the pair in Denerim, so even if he  _ weren’t _ at bad odds to start, he’d likely never step outside again. But there may be another way.”

Teagan had sat silent through her explanation, prompting her to continue whenever she paused. Now his head tilted back to drain the last of his goblet and he leaned forward, eyes slightly glazed. “I’m...not going to like this  _ other way_, am I?”

Athadra shook her head. “Probably not.” She closed her eyes and gathered her thoughts. “Jowan remains in the dungeons, unfed and filthy, but he may still be of use to you. I know he caused this mess, or at least had a hand in it, but his business with Loghain is done. If you can protect him, he can teach Connor how to use his magic, and how to hide it...and, just maybe, how to keep himself from getting possessed again.”

To his credit, Teagan appeared to seriously consider the proposal for a few brief moments, before clouds shadowed his face. “No,” he pronounced. “I’m sorry, Warden. I know he is a friend, and your stories of the Circle make escaping it sound worth most any price...but he remains the man who poisoned my brother, and murdered the man’s wife. In service to saving her son or not, I cannot forget that. Eamon would never allow it, either.”

Athadra sighed, trying to seem more disappointed than she felt; she honestly hoped the boy was far away from Redcliffe when the Desire Demon chose to reappear. “Then you can send him away, to Rivain or to Tevinter. In the South of Rivain they barely take to the Chantry, and in the Imperium he could lead a good life, if he got apprenticed to the right magister.”

“I will...consider these options, and present them to my brother the arl, if the Maker deigns to cure him.” He didn’t look satisfied with any of Athadra’s suggestions, but before she could think of anything else, a knock sounded at the door. “Enter,” he said, voice far less authoritative than it must have been before the ordeal with the demon.

A page in the arl’s service came in and bowed low. “Message from the captain of the guard, Bann Teagan.” When the bann gestured for the lad to go on, he faced Athadra and continued. “Guards caught two travelers riding lathered horses across the bridge. They say they’re on a quest for the Grey Wardens.”

Athadra arched a brow, and then remembered the assassin elf and the Orlesian lay sister, and the task she’d put them on. “I’ll see them. Show them to my room.” The boy nodded and ran off, and Athadra felt the incongruity of a mage  _ giving _ orders, rather than simply receiving them, but she was getting more and more used to people jumping whenever she barked. “I’m sorry, Bann Teagan.” She looked far less apologetic than she had when those words had last passed her lips, and did not wait for the man’s acknowledgement before she rose. “Thank you for the supper. Think about what’s best...for Connor, but also for the arling. The darkspawn are coming. You’ve few enough soldiers left.” Teagan promised to think on what they’d discussed, and Athadra took her leave.

She arrived at her own room just before the two guests arrived, making sure her flatblade and whetstone were on the bed when the gentle knock sounded. After she bade them enter, Leliana and Zevran slipped in quietly. Athadra looked to the elf. “What have you?”

Zevran shrugged and downplayed a smirk. “Not too much, I’m afraid. It turns out the good brother was not in Denerim after all.”

“An impostor stood in his place,” Leliana provided. “He killed the brother’s apprentice and tried directing us to a little village on the Eastern shore of Lake Calenhad.”

The assassin chuckled. “Too bad he hadn’t properly disposed of the body, no?” The two shared a glance, and Zevran continued. “There is a village in the West, we think, called Haven.”

Athadra crossed her arms. “I’ve never heard of such a village,” she pointed out. “And I’ve peeked at every map of Thedas in the Circle’s library...and some outside of it.”

Leliana nodded. “I had not heard of such a place either, at least not in Ferelden. But the notes we found are quite descriptive, and mention how isolated the place is.”

“That is where this Brother Genitivi most likely is, searching for the Andraste’s ashes,” Zevran said, heaving a derisive snort.

Athadra looked into the fireplace. “What did you learn from the impostor before you killed him?”

Zevran stepped forward, keeping himself at the edge of her vision as she turned away from the door, his hands clasped in front of him. “He spoke a great deal of Andraste, and of his duty to protect Her.”

“It seemed as though he thought she still lived,” Leliana pointed out from behind them. “And he certainly seemed to regard the Urn as real enough, given how strongly he tried to keep us from looking for it.”

Athadra looked at Zevran. “Thank you for coming back,” she said after a moment’s pause. “It won’t be long now before Loghain learns of my survival, if he hasn’t already. Two of his agents were already here before I arrived, and I had to clean up a bit of a mess one of them helped to bring on.” She smirked and shook her head. “So if you really think the Crows will kill you, you can stay on.”

Zevran bowed from the waist, but his eyes didn’t waver from the Warden’s face. “ _ Grazie mille _ , Warden. The Crows may even think me dead, but if they learn otherwise, they will not be long in correcting their mistake.”

Athadra nodded as he rose. “Very well. But if you cross me or get in my way, I’ll make sure you live to regret it.”

The assassin struck a cocky smile. “As you like. You might even tie my hands at night, if that would make you feel more secure.” Leliana stifled a giggle, which brought another arch to Athadra’s brow.

“It looks like we’re going to Haven, then. Wherever in the shadow of the Void that is.” The Warden heaved a sigh. “Do you know the way?”

Leliana stepped forward, laying her hand on the foot of the bed. “There are two principal routes into the Frostback Mountains, but both of them have dangers. The first is Gherlen’s Pass, near the entrance of Orzammar, but that route entails picking our way South through the mountains. The most promising is a middle path which begins at Sulcher’s Pass, halfway between Gherlen’s Pass and a little village to the Southwest of here, called Honnleath.”

Athadra nodded. “I expect we’ll be heading to the dwarven city eventually, so I’d prefer the Southern way, to keep from re-treading our steps too often.”

“The darkspawn will be thicker, there,” Leliana said after a moment. “Lothering is...lost.”

The Warden paused for half a heartbeat, but then closed her mind against the desperate concern welling within her. “We cannot know where they’ll go next,” she forced herself to say. “Or even if the horde will remain united. We must move quickly, and if that means getting eaten up by the Blight...well, that is what Grey Wardens are for.” She still felt something of a fraud, despite the grim smile she spared for her two companions. “Tell Alistair and the Sten that we leave at daybreak.”


	16. The Far Side of the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athadra leads her team through the abandoned wilderness to an unknown village, questing for some magical ashes. Along the way, she must face down a mutiny and convince her fellow Grey Warden that she's not an abomination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time constraints mean that italics will likely disappear from here on, as I write in Google Docs and paste into the text editor here, which destroys the formatting. I've gotten around this problem thus far by manually re-italicizing the words, but I simply haven't time to do that any longer. If anyone can suggest a better method of writing that doesn't involve writing directly into AO3's text editor to preserve the formatting, feel free to leave advice in the comments. (Along with your thoughts on the story, of course!)

Sulcher’s Pass was a series of dried river runs that connected through wild country, and which apparently petered out well before crossing the Frostback Mountains into the conquered Dales, once the home of the elves and now a grande division of the Orlesian Empire. Thus it was not properly a pass at all, instead named, perhaps ironically, after an Ander explorer who’d disappeared trying to reach Halamshiral from Redcliffe shortly after the Orlesian occupation of Ferelden. The last sentient contact Athadra’s party had had was four days past, at the mouth of the pass, when they’d run into a merchant just off the Imperial Highway who’d practically paid them to take an item off of his hands. It was supposedly a stone golem’s control rod, but the man had never seen the golem in question, and he’d heard that Honnleath, where the living statue supposedly rested, was as good a target as any for one of the large groups of darkspawn roaming Southern Ferelden. The rod had been bent, and bent straight again, but something about the man’s earnestness kept Athadra from simply throwing it away.

Since that time Athadra, Alistair, and their gathered comrades had seen not a single soul as the earth around them lifted and the trees grew more rugged. Supposedly there were ancient Avvar hillfolk who still lived in these foothills, surviving off of the land and warring with each other as though King Calenhad had never united Ferelden into a single polity. There were no signs of them here, though; there was no sign of anything stirring in these trees, and Athadra’s doubts about this village called ‘Haven’ were beginning to take root. The three-shift nightly watches which the Sten had suggested seemed superfluous, though Athadra felt safer knowing that someone was awake in the night. Game was getting scarce, and Bodahn’s caravan hadn’t followed them from the Imperial Highway. She began to wonder if it wasn’t time to turn back, but she didn’t know what else she could do. If the best that the Circle had to offer could not heal Eamon, she didn’t have any idea what could.

As evening fell, that fourth day from the Highway, the Sten stopped short. He’d barely spoken during their nightly duels...in fact he’d hardly spoken at all since witnessing the ritual that had killed Isolde and saved Connor. Athadra rounded on him and waved for Alistair and the others to continue along the route that the rogues had discovered in Brother Genitivi’s notes. “Why are we stopping?” She posed the question with a half-smirk, recalling him saying those words just outside of Lothering.

The Sten’s face darkened. “Tell me this: do you intend to keep wandering West until it becomes East, and attack the Archdemon from the rear?”

Athadra’s brow shot up, her face falling. “A’course not.”

“Then you have an interesting strategy for felling your enemies,” the Sten gruffed.

The elf shook her head and leaned against a nearby treetrunk. “We can’t kill the Archdemon without an army, and maybe more than one, if this country waits ‘till it’s too late. We can’t gather an army without Arl Eamon...and it appears we can’t rouse the arl without these precious ashes we’re after. But you knew that.” The Sten did not reply, nor did he move, for a long time. Athadra held his gaze until she was certain that she was correct. “What is amiss, Sten?”

The Sten closed his eyes and moved his lips silently, as though in prayer. Athadra could sense Morrigan’s magic behind her, just beyond the edge of the trees, and she guessed that the rest of the party weren’t far afield. Finally the Sten drew himself up and regarded her sharply. “You are saarebas,” he breathed. “A mage, you would say. I suspected it not long after we met, though I attributed the spells you must have cast to the poorly-dressed one.” Perhaps Athadra only imagined the Wilds-witch’s scoff, and her own expression grew grim.

“But you learned otherwise in Redcliffe, when I went into the Fade.” The look in the Sten’s eye had Athadra’s heart pounding, and she felt the weight of her flatblade lessen as her mana instinctively weaved into her muscles.

“When you and the other mage murdered the foolish woman, yes.” He paused again, but before Athadra could prod him further, he turned his back on her. “In Seheron and Par Vollen, saarebas are known as weak things, useful in their way, but open to temptations others can barely fathom. They are bound so thoroughly that your Circle of Magi would seem the lushest paradise in comparison, and none are ever trusted to lead.” As he spoke, he reached behind his back, grasping the hilt of his own sword. He sounded disgusted, with himself or with her...or perhaps a bit of both.

Athadra glanced at the trees and shook her head; she would not have the Sten mobbed on her behalf. Instead she grasped her own blade, and as one they unclothed their weapons. “I’m not weak,” she said, casually. Even now her heart told her to run back to Lothering, to see what had become of her family, but Athadra had forced herself to take every step away from her childhood home, smouldering as it surely was under the good graces of the darkspawn.

“We shall see,” the Sten called, his back still toward her. “I follow you to find my atonement, not to lose myself in the sinister oblivion which beckons from the use of magic. The Qun demands that I see you die, before your words can mislead me from the path. But the Qun also demands that I return home, or face my own death, lest my own freedom lead me astray.” He turned around, taking his sword’s hilt in both hands, and tilted his head toward her. Athadra nodded to him, and he even managed a small smile. “You will help me satisfy one of these demands. There is no other way.”

The mage exhaled slowly, concentrating on her heartbeat and her breath, just as the Sten had coached her quite recently. “Very well, Sten.” She readied her blade, and as the tension thickened to its height, she barked a chuckle. “Just don’t let these bastards burn me body if you kill me.” She wanted no part of the Chantry now that she was free of the Circle, not even its venerated burial rites, which demanded the faithful be cremated as Andraste herself was burned. Some of the more devoted went to their pyres while they still drew breath, as the prophet had been forced to do.

The Sten only nodded, and then their dance began. The terrain was poor for dueling, pebbly and uneven, but Athadra began the fight on higher ground, though the Sten was still taller than she. She had to put all of her power behind her swings just to parry the blows the Sten aimed at her, which would have ripped her nearly in twain had she faltered. As it was, she felt a whisper of a kiss from the sword here and there, and she found herself retreating uphill in the face of his assault. Once, her footing faltered and she went to one knee; she was certain she was headed for the Void. She recovered just in time, throwing the pocked edge of her blade up into the Sten’s downstroke; the two weapons embraced so intimately that when the warriors withdrew, deep impressions remained on the hot steel of each.

When Athadra rose, she managed to take the fight to the Sten, pouring the last of her mana into her raw strength. He spat curses at her in Qunlat, the Qunari tongue, but slowly he ebbed sideways, giving her lateral rather than vertical inches. Suddenly it was the Sten’s turn to stumble, and he fell backward into a clearing well concealed from the ragged half-hewn trail they’d been attempting to follow. Athadra dropped her flatblade and leapt atop him, straddling his chest without a second thought, and bringing one of her Grey Warden daggers to the base of his throat. Sweat burned her eyes, and she hardly noticed the crimson haze that had surrounded her in her desperation.

“Do you yield, Qunari? To a saarebas?” She kept a blood-coloured eye on his own blade, still firmly within his grasp, honestly prepared to drive her dagger into the base of his skull at the first glimmer of movement.

Eventually the Sten nodded, his expression only inches beneath a snarl. “Finish it,” he spat.

Athadra hesitated. “When I let you out of your cage, and again a bit ago, you said you wanted atonement...for letting your rage drive you mad.” Again the man nodded. “Then follow me, and perhaps you will find your way home. You certainly won’t find it in the Void. Or you can die.” That last she said evenly, making an offer, rather than a threat.

One finger at a time, the Sten relinquished his blade. “I was mistaken,” he said, sounding surprised. “You are strong enough to lead me. What now?”

Athadra’s eyes brightened and she sat back, sheathing her dagger and surveying their surroundings for the first time. The clearing still smelt faintly of ash, and beneath the new growth, old charred remains of the forest could still be spied. The elf could think of only two causes for a burnt-out clearing in the foothills of the Frostback Mountains. “Now we move on,” she said at last. “To Haven.”

It was close to full dark now, but Athadra sent Zevran scouting ahead; he’d studied the Chantryman’s notes more thoroughly than Leliana, perhaps in an attempt to impress his new hosts, and he was confident they were nearing the forgotten village. While he was gone, the party made a makeshift camp in the overgrown clearing. No one spoke of the duel, except for the Sten, when he pronounced it sufficient practice for the night. Athadra worried at her flatblade with a whetstone, but the new nicks and wrinkles in the cutting edge would take far too long to whittle away; she’d need a new weapon, and if Leliana and Zevran’s reception in Genitivi’s house were any indication, she’d need it fairly soon.

Alistair picked his way across the sloped ground and sat nearby her. For a few moments he did not speak, instead working over his own smaller blade with a stone. “So,” he said slowly, still not looking at her. “I could have sworn you were going to die, back there. Was about to charge in, all heroic and everything.” His smile was forced, the joke a bit too insincere for it to reach his eyes. “But then I saw something I’ve prayed I’d never see up close before. Funny thing is, I thought I never would, after Duncan conscripted me.” A hollow laugh, and now the almost-templar couldn’t even pretend to smile.

“Now Duncan’s dead,” Athadra said quietly. “And you’ve seen it twice.”

“In as many weeks,” he confirmed. The man seemed at a loss. “I was hoping I’d only imagined it. Really, Athadra? Blood magic?” He spat the accusation in a low hiss, and Athadra didn’t like the way his sword shook in his grip. “Do you want to become an abomination, like Connor almost became? I shouldn’t have to tell you how dangerous dealing with demons is.”

“It were a deal, aye,” Athadra said with a small sigh. She looked directly into Alistair’s grey face. “But it were a deal struck with a mage, in this world.” She held up a hand and held the elder Warden’s gaze without blinking. “Jowan owed me. He lied to me; I don’t know how he learned it, and I don’t rightly care. All I know is that he floored a room full of templars and ran off, and I got caught in a cell for two days, and I couldn’t defend myself when just one of ‘em took a fancy to me.”

Alistair blinked, recoiling slightly at the ferocity in her expression. “I’m...sorry,” he managed. “I didn’t know that...but that’s not an excuse to become a maleficar!” He might have been trying to convince himself, as well as her.

Athadra rolled her eyes. “And I suppose it’s just a coincidence that the only kind of magic that templars can’t control is forbidden outright, so that only demons can teach it?” She shook her head. “So that when a scared mage is cornered and has no other recourse, a demon can promise her that power, in return for her eyes and ears? Half the awful things you think of as blood magic are just because of demons, which is also some coincidence.” She took a breath and looked away. “And you were wrong,” she said softly.

Alistair had looked to argue half a dozen times while she spoke, but when she paused, he had no answer to her questions. “About blood magic being bad?” He arched a brow, though he couldn’t bring himself to smile.

“About not seeing blood magic until after your Joining,” Athadra supplied. She fished into her armour and produced the pendant she’d been given, after her own induction into the Wardens. It was filled with just a few drops of the concoction from the goblet. “This reminds me of my phylactery--the tool the templars use to hunt down apostates. They take our blood into little vials, and then they can find us wherever we are...” She shook her head and looked at him. “The Joining is similar. But it doesn’t count, since it uses darkspawn blood. Well, if templars can use mage blood, and Grey Wardens can use darkspawn blood, I don’t see why I can’t use them, too. Especially if it means that I don’t have to resort to a demon if I’m in a corner with some monster in a tintop helmet who won’t keep his hands to himself.” There was more she could say--a volume, really, that she’d been thinking of ever since she’d woken from the Fade in Redcliffe. Excuses and justifications and a thousand little contradictions built into the Chant. But she was tired of defending her existence, tired of finding justifications for doing what came naturally to her.

Alistair’s lips parted and remained that way for a long moment before he gathered his thoughts. “I don’t....know if I agree that the Joining is really blood magic,” he said tentatively. “We’ll have to part ways, like you’re fond of saying. But I always felt uneasily about phylacteries, I’ll admit. Just...try not to get possessed, okay? And try not to use it where other people can see. We don’t need the Chantry turning against us, along with the rest of the country, do we?” He shrugged, and his smirk managed to twinkle in his eyes for the first time that evening.

“Very well,” Athadra said with a tilt of her head. She heard the demon’s greeting echoing in her voice, and her throat tightened before she could say anything else. Alistair seemed satisfied, if still a little perturbed, and he stalked off. The Sten stared into the fire, his lips moving again, and Athadra couldn’t help but feel isolated once again...though this time it was by her own choice, so she had no one else to blame. Alistair’s rescued amulet hung heavy in an inside pouch of her armour, and she resolved to give it to him once they got back to Redcliffe.

When the assassin returned with a smile and told her of the path he’d found to their destination, she decided that they would push on into Haven at first light. Then the Antivan made up his own bedroll nearby, and Athadra shifted back to her feet, casting about for a proper spot. She found herself settling almost exactly halfway between the main fire and Morrigan’s offshoot, though she could not say why, except perhaps that she liked having the warmth of both fires for company.


	17. Just A Pinch...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athadra's corps of companions stumble upon the isolated village of Haven, and their search for Andraste's Ashes culminates in another non-darkspawn bloodbath. The party must face their own thoughts and feelings--as well as tests of their resolve--in order to procure the smallest pinch of the holy remains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm incredibly sorry for the lateness of posting this chapter; I'm in the midst of my first semester of school, and time keeps getting away from me. I'll try to go back to posting regularly Friday nights, but things might be sporadic. Thanks to everyone who's read, and especially to those that have reviewed!

After the unwelcome revelation that many of Redcliffe’s questing knights had been lured to their deaths in Haven, the Warden and her companions had had to fight their way through much of the village. Even here there had been a Chantry, though led by a revered father of all things, and apparently devoted to the worship of ‘the risen Andraste’, reincarnated as an honest-to-goodness dragon. After Athadra had killed the town’s revered father, she found herself in the uncomfortable position of rescuing the sought-after Chantryman, who’d been tortured for information, and likely for amusement as well. Brother Genitivi had led them to an ancient ruin of a temple, where the Disciples of Andraste made their last stand.

The evident leader of the Disciples, who styled himself Father Kolgrim, had confirmed that the Urn of Sacred Ashes lay in a shrine beyond the outer limits of the temple, and had offered to let them pass and take a pinch for their own, in return for defiling what remained with the dragon’s blood. The offer was nearly as tempting as the Desire Demon’s had been, in truth, for Athadra’s party had been fighting for more than a day, with nearly every step uphill. But Alistair had protested loudly, and in the end Athadra had declined as politely as possible; she’d left her flatblade in Father Kolgrim’s torso, and in its place she took the man’s double-bearded axe, which was actually a bit lighter than the mangled blade she left behind. After a few practice swings, she felt comfortable enough wielding it, as long as Alistair and the Sten gave her a wide-enough berth. She’d also picked up a smaller blade off of one of the fanatical mages which quite intrigued her; it was etched with runes, and the metal shone with a bluish tint, as though lyrium had been folded into it during its forging. When she held it, she felt her magic respond, as though the weapon were a staff. She was tempted to use it, but the Sten made a derisive noise about how tiny it was, and so ultimately Athadra folded it her flatblade’s oilcloth and fixed it to her pack to examine later.

Once beyond the outer temple, the party emerged near the summit of the mountain out of which the complex had been carved. The mountaintop steamed around them, a mixture of sulfur and the crispness of newly-melted snow attacking their senses. Athadra was exhausted to the smallest bones of her toes yet again, but too wary of the dragon to think of sleeping; the moment of truth passed when the enormous beast swooped near, and glided to a ledge, where it evidently kept its nest. After half an hour of waiting for the creature to stir, Athadra chose to move.

That was how they found themselves in the temple’s inner sanctum, confronting a spirit in the form of a man. Athadra’s skin tingled unpleasantly, and she shared a glance with Morrigan that told her they stood atop and amidst a veritable mountain of raw lyrium ore. The feeling had been building with each step the party took, at least for the two most attuned to it, but in this place the sensation was undeniable. Athadra shook her head to help clear it, but before she could ask about the Urn, the spirit stepped forward.

“I am the Guardian,” it seemed to say, though its lips did not move, and its voice was more a whisper in the mind than an echo off the walls. “I was once a man, but I stand ever vigilant, until my task is done and the Tevinter Imperium has crumbled into the sea.”

Alistair spoke first. “Will we find the Urn of Sacred Ashes here?”

“You may,” the spirit confirmed. His lips moved now, and he seemed to take fuller shape as he spoke. “If you can pass the Gauntlet.”

Athadra heaved a sigh. “Is there a chance in Rivain that we can just see the wretched thing?”

“If you can get past the Gauntlet,” the spirit reiterated, his voice now sounding properly in their ears. “But first, I would know something of each of you.” He turned to Alistair. “You have addressed me first, and so shall I address you. You have a great love for the man called Duncan. If you feel regrets that your shield was not there to save him from the killing blow, I would learn them.”

The elder Warden paused and swallowed. “I...yes. I keep wondering what would happen if I’d been there with him, or...or in his place. Everything would have gone better if he’d...lived.” The man looked away, and the spirit nodded slowly, turning toward Athadra.

“And you are a great mystery,” he said, after a moment’s pause. “You seek the Ashes of Andraste even though you have no faith in Her, and suspect that She may never have existed at all. Yet you have declined the opportunity to defile Her remains, and travel with three companions who love Her dearly.” The Guardian closed his eyes. Athadra wondered how he knew this, and if he already knew the answers they might give. Before she put voice to those musings, however, the spirit’s gaze fell upon her again. “You suffered greatly at the hands of your friend, Jowan, and those of the templar charged with watching over you after his escape. Would you have blamed Duncan for your fate, if you had known that the reason he failed to recruit you at the moment of Jowan’s treachery was because he was unlacing the robes of a senior enchanter in the Harrowing Chamber?”

Athadra’s brow rose slowly, as the Guardian’s words brewed in the back of her mind. An instant chill flooded her intestines, but for one of the first times in her life, she realized that there was a range of feelings at the edge of her awareness, and that she had some hand in choosing which ones to take up in response to the spirit’s information. She frowned. “It weren’t his lot to save me to begin with,” she said eventually. “So...no. I don’t blame him.”

When Athadra had nothing more to add, the Guardian turned to Morrigan. “Flemeth’s daughter. Do you--”

“Begone, spirit,” the Wilds-witch spat. “I will not play your game.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the spirit nodded. “I will respect your decision,” he allowed, and turned to the remaining companions. One by one he picked his way through them, trading soft barbs with Leliana about the vision she’d claimed to have received from the Maker, asking the Sten if he rued the barbaric light in which his crime had cast his race, and touching on an assassination that Zevran apparently regretted. Of Garahel he asked nothing; perhaps the dog rued nothing, or perhaps the spirit simply did not consider him a pilgrim.

“Thank you for indulging me,” the Guardian addressed them. “The Gauntlet awaits. If you prove worthy, you shall be allowed to approach the Urn of Sacred Ashes, and take a small pinch of them for yourselves.” He stepped aside, and the door behind him opened of its own accord. Beyond, they faced an enormous hall with a series of alcoves; more ghostly figures hovered within each alcove, but they did not seem to see Athadra or the other companions at all. When addressed, they spoke in riddles about Andraste or the times in which She had lived, and then disappeared when their riddle was answered. Some were easy and obvious even to Alistair, but others were more obscure, and more than an hour passed before the last phantasm disappeared and the great doors at the end of the hall creaked inward of their own accord to admit them.

In the smaller antechamber beyond, Alistair stopped short with a gasp. “Is that...?” But before he could finish, the spectre turned, becoming more solid as it did so. Duncan’s swarthy features twitched into a smile as he surveyed them, his blue-hemmed armour gleaming in the low torchlight of the hall.

“No,” Athadra and Morrigan answered at once. A glance passed between the Wilds-witch and the Warden, and Athadra might have seen the woman return her own smirk.

The form of Duncan chuckled, surveying the throng before him. “I did not honestly think I could fool you,” he said a bit sadly, though his smile remained. “You face a--”

“--daunting challenge, aye,” interrupted Athadra, her brow lowering. “So far this Gauntlet’s been more boring than sitting in a Chantry.”

The vision of the former Warden Commander shimmered slightly, and the mage thought she sensed disapproval in his expression, but he did not voice it. “Yes, you have a warrior’s heart, and a warrior’s patience. Duncan could see that from the first.” Alistair made a move, possibly to ask the phantom a question, but Athadra cut him off with a gesture and nodded for the image of Duncan to continue. “I am grateful for your forgiveness, even if I am merely a shadow, wrought from your memories. You will not find the path ahead an easy one, even beyond your desire for the Urn. Mere afterimage that I am, I still offer a small token of assistance, which you may take from this place even if you do not pass the remainder of the Gauntlet.”

With that, the figure held out a gloved hand, which held a small silver pendant on a chain. Tentatively, Athadra reached out; her fingers passed straight through the phantom’s hand, but they caught on the chain, and the pendant felt solid in her clenched fist. A strange power tickled over her palm through her own glove, and when she looked up to thank the spirit, she wasn’t surprised to find that it had simply disappeared.

Athadra turned to Alistair and held out her hand. “You take it,” she said at once. “I’ve already got two,” she said, speaking of the darkspawn-blood-filled keepsake of her Joining, and another necklace acquired in the caves through which they’d climbed to reach this place, which made her blood sing whenever she drew upon the forbidden magic the Desire Demon had taught her.

Alistair stood abashed for a brief moment, before taking up the pendant and fitting it around his neck. “Thank you,” he said when it clicked into place. “I know it wasn’t really from Duncan, but...”

“Let us go,” said Morrigan, a mixture of annoyance and something approaching nerves in her voice. Evidently the power of the rock around them didn’t set her at any greater ease than it did to Athadra. “We should not linger overlong.” A murmur of general agreement passed through the party, and so Athadra marched on, though she immediately regretted it. In the very next room they came across another group of shadows. It took a mere moment for her to realize that this new obstacle was a copy of her own party, and in that moment’s hesitation Athadra discovered that at least one rung of the Gauntlet involved battle.

She could sense the mana emanating from the shadowed figures of herself and Morrigan. “Stay back,” she called over her shoulder to the corporeal Wilds-witch, even as the Sten and Alistair ran forward to grapple with their spectral counterparts. Athadra drew deeply upon her own magical energy and focused on a point midway between the two shadow mages, releasing an explosion of mana that clashed with their own magic. The figures evaporated before they could call up spells of their own; the Warden had just enough energy left to channel into her muscles, and so she unlimbered her newly-won axe, taking up the fray to battle the shadow Sten alongside the corporeal Qunari.

From the corner of her eye, Athadra spied twin shadows dueling, and she recognized Zevran’s features in both, though she could not tell which was the real assassin and which the illusion. Before she could comment, the spectral Sten took advantage of her split-second distraction, parrying her axe with his sword. It was only the real Sten’s slash that saved her from the blow, and together the mage and the Qunari fought the phantom back until it faded away.

Soon enough, each of the doppelgangers had evaporated beneath the combined assault of the companions, and they moved on to the next room. It was with some measure of relief that they discovered the next task of the Gauntlet was another mental challenge, rather than a physical one. A chasm yawned between the ledge they now occupied and the corridor beyond, which looked like it just might be their destination. Runic pedestals sat fixed at the lip of the ledge, and when stepped on in the right order, pieces of a semi-transparent bridge came into being. After many false starts, Athadra managed to set foot on the opposite side of the gulf, at which point the bridge became solid and permanent.

Finally they made it to the chamber where Andraste’s Ashes lay; the final test involved stripping off their armour and underclothes, and walking through a cordon of fire to prove their devotion. Athadra was too focused on her goal to worry about her own lack of faith, and she succeeded in crossing the flame without injury. It was only then that the Guardian reappeared, bidding them to dress and approach the Urn of Sacred Ashes, and reminding them to take just a pinch for themselves. Alistair and Leliana made awed noises as they approached, and while Zevran snarked about the shape of the vase, Athadra could detect a note of reverence hidden beneath his sarcasm. An odd sensation flitted through her stomach as she filled a small pouch with a generous pinch from the Urn, under the Guardian’s watchful gaze. He told them of several shortcuts which could be used to return more directly to the temple, and they made short work of the intervening distance. Athadra spoke little, even after reuniting with Brother Genitivi, who wished to make the Urn a destination for pilgrims throughout Thedas, and threatened to fight for that cause when Athadra aired her suspicions. With a shrug she dismissed her own complaints, and together they picked their way down the mountainside, stopping only when exhaustion threatened to overwhelm them.


	18. End of Innocence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Covered in dust and mud and their fair share of blood, the Wardens and their companions triumphantly return to Redcliffe, to see if their labors to procure Andraste's Ashes shall bear fruit. Athadra and Morrigan also settle an account in words.

It took just shy of a week for Athadra and her comrades to return to Redcliffe, their boots wearing thin and their bellies taut, near to screaming for hunger. Teagan looked shocked at the sight of them, covered in brown bloodstains and fresh pink scars from Athadra’s attempts at healing the wounds they’d sustained in their journey to the Ashes.

“...What news have you?” said the bann, after choking back his surprise when the company crossed into Redcliffe’s main hall. Athadra said nothing at first, but she reached into her pack and flung the little leather pouch onto the broad feasting table. Teagan took in a breath slowly. “Is that...?”

“The gods-damned ashes, aye. I’d say we had to wipe a village off the map to get it, but the village weren’t on the map to start with, so it made no difference.” She couldn’t hide the bitterness in her voice; how many had died to save this arl already? How many more would die in his stead, before the intrigue with Loghain was over and done? “Me and mine haven’t eaten in a day and a half, and it were longer before that. You have your dust. Give us a bit of bread, if you would.”

Teagan looked even more taken aback, but straightened with effort. His eyes were no longer red-rimmed, but his finery still held swatches of black, here and there. The intervening twolfnight had seen him much better-fed than they’d obviously been. With a curt nod, he turned to an attendant. “Rouse the cook, and tell him it’s urgent. He’ll have two Grey Wardens and their friends to feed.” When the boy nodded and ran off, Teagan took up the discarded pouch with an inclination of his own head. “Thank you, my lady. I cannot imagine what this has cost you all, but believe me when I tell you it may have bought Ferelden. If you wait here, the castle cook will have the table overflowing within the hour.”

“I hope it is better than Alistair’s stew,” said the Orlesian archer, though her eyes glittered when she threw a glance at the near-templar. He made a noise of protest, but Athadra heaved a sigh.

“Thank you, Bann Teagan. You’ve no need to wait on our account, though. There’s still hope?”

“Indeed,” the bann replied. “I pray you feel welcome here, and all your friends. I must confer with the healer. May the Maker keep you,” he said with a small bow, and strode off without a second glance, thus missing the dirty looks both mages gave in response to his piety.

The cook was as good as the bann’s word, however, so Athadra could not complain; instead she and her confederates fell upon the bread, cheese, and hearty stews that the scullions brought out to them. Everyone ate like mabaris, though by the end of the hour, only Athadra, Alistair and Garahel still demanded more. Eventually they, too, were satisfied. Bann Teagan returned not long after, his face steeped with relief.

“It is truly a miracle,” he pronounced. “If I had not seen it with my own eyes, I’d be apt to doubt; my ladies and gentlemen, our hopes have borne fruit. Eamon has awakened.” His pronouncement brooked several reactions--Zevran kissed his first knuckle, Leliana made some pious noises in Orlesian, and Alistair gasped. Athadra felt her stomach twist a bit, her brow creasing as doubts began forming...doubts over her own lack of faith, if nothing else. Teagan seemed unperturbed by the myriad of effects, and continued. “I told my brother the arl all that happened while he was comatose. It was much to take in, and he is still weak, so he shall postpone receiving you until the morrow.”

Athadra nodded. “That’s agreeable, Bann Teagan. We all need a good wash and a sleep, ourselves. Will we have the same rooms we had when last we slept here?”

The bann paused, counting the heads at the table. “We have one too few guestrooms, I think. Two will have to share, I believe.”

The Antivan elf piped up at once. “I could be persuaded to make that sacrifice, I think.” He cast a long glance down the table, which lingered on Athadra and Leliana in turn, and caused both of the Wardens to frown in consternation.

“Morrigan and I will share the room I occupied last time,” Athadra pronounced. “If you are amenable, of course.” She gave the Wilds-witch a searching look, and Morrigan hesitated a moment before nodding. “Good,” the Warden clipped, turning back to Teagan. “If you’ve servants enough, baths for each of us would do nicely.” Her doubts slowly ebbed away, supplanted by an odd warmth tingling in her chest that she couldn’t quite explain.

The bann nodded and made the arrangements while Athadra’s troupe collected themselves from the dining table. A servant showed Zevran and Leliana to their rooms, but everyone else remembered where to go. The party dwindled every few steps, as its members took to their own rooms, until Morrigan and Athadra strode down the hall, Garahel at their heels. Once beyond the door to the bedroom, they discovered two washbasins filled with steaming water and soapcakes sitting beside them, set close to the fire; Athadra wondered if the servants who placed them had left so swiftly out of habit, or because they knew that the occupants of the room were mages.

“‘Twas good of them not to linger,” exclaimed Morrigan a bit too quickly Athadra bit back a cynical laugh and began unloading her kit--the pack that held her tent and meagre possessions, her axe, and the strange sword, wrought to bring out the wielder’s magic as well as a Circle stave. Close by, Morrigan dropped her own pack and shrugged out of the filthy rags her own clothes had become; it took her much less time to disrobe than it took the Warden, whose armour held itself in place with many buckles and straps. Without a word, the Wilds-witch closed the distance between them and helped Athadra free herself from the muck-encrusted leather.

“Thank you,” Athadra said with a sigh, once she was free to tug off her gloves and boots. She stood for a moment, regarding the Wilds-born woman almost tentatively, until the other clicked her tongue.

“Think nothing of it, but do not expect me to bathe you as well. Especially if you keep standing there whilst our tubs cool.” With that, Morrigan turned and went to the nearest basin, while Athadra hesitated. She watched the other woman sinking into the tub, crimson eyes lingering over the curve of Morrigan’s spine, before blinking herself out of her reverie and banishing the unbidden whispers which threatened to snatch at the corners of her mind.

Athadra sunk into her own tub down to her neck; it would have been small for a human man, but Athadra was an elf, and a short one, at that. The water’s heat nearly overwhelmed her for a moment, but she breathed a hiss, letting the prickles roll over and through her skin. She was not long in scrubbing the weeks’ worth of grime from her frame and her hair, and soon enough the water swirled murkily about her. By now the warmth felt more inviting, but she knew stewing in her own dirt wouldn’t do, so she heaved herself out of the basin and dried herself off with a pulse of air and spirit energy that nearly chilled her to the bone.

“Done already?” The witch’s tone was much more indulgent, now, and Athadra saw that she reclined in her own tub as much as her long legs would allow. She’d avoided the thick of the fighting, and so her dirt was more incidental.

“Take a look into me tub and tell me you want to get wrinkled in it,” Athadra shot back, though a small smile played about her lips. When Morrigan graced the ruined water with a disdainful glance, Athadra nodded and ransacked the room for some proper clothes; she wasn’t going to wear anything resembling robes again, if she could help it. Finally she located some rough trousers and a thickspun tunic which suited her purposes, and by the time she dressed, Morrigan had removed herself from her own tub and had begun washing her clothes with great care. Athadra could feel the woman’s energy flickering, even though Morrigan’s lips were still, and she knew not to disturb the process. Instead the Warden watched her companion work, trying not to steal too many glances down the woman’s flank, still uncertain what made her want to look at Morrigan like that in the first place. Memories of the Desire Demon loomed in the back of her mind, and Athadra shuddered, another strange jolt crossing her belly.

Finally they were both dressed again, Athadra in her found garments and Morrigan in her customary garb. “Now, then,” the Wilds-witch sighed. “Hopefully the servants will not see fit to slit our throats in our sleep, when they come to collect the basins. And your armour as well, I suppose.” She threw a backward glance at the dingy heap and pulled a sour face that made Athadra chuckle. “T’as been too long since we could speak privily. Not since the eve before the nighttime battle here, I believe. I gave you a story from my girlhood, and you promised me one of yours.”

Athadra nodded, making room on the broad bed for Morrigan to sit beside her. “Aye.” She drew in a long breath, contemplating the flames of the nearby hearth. “Do you want to hear how I skint my legs climbing trees? Or how I spent one First Day locked in a hen house until my mam came to scold me for stealing eggs?” The memory crooked a smile onto her face for an instant.

“I was thinking of the tale of your capture,” Morrigan said softly, settling on her side in languorous repose.

The Warden’s expression darkened millimetrically, but she lay back, contemplating the ceiling for a few long moments. “It’s a bit of a tale; the short version is that I put the fear of Andraste into a nosy little boy whose dad were a tintop called Ser Bryant. Man was right nice to me, though, all the way up the road to the tower.” She heaved a sigh, casting a glance down at her companion. “But you wanted more of a story than that, didn’t you?”

Morrigan nodded but didn’t speak. Her expression was hardly scrutable. Athadra swallowed and closed her eyes. “When I were seven, my mam and dad made friends with another farmer, a man name of Malcolm Hawke.”

“He was another elf?”

Athadra shook her head. “He were human, but new to the village, and well-disposed to us because he were an apostate. Had a wife and three little kids, too, around me own age. Two I spent the most time with were twins, a year younger than me. I saw one of them at Ostagar, strange enough. Carver.” She didn’t quite notice the hitch of a smile that crossed her lips at his name, nor the twitch in Morrigan’s eyebrow which accompanied it. “It’s odd; Malcolm were the mage, but it were just his daughters who got the touch from him. Cethlenn and Bethany.” She spoke the first name with a soft ‘C’, almost like an ‘S’.

Morrigan shifted, curling up at the foot of the bed. “Which was the twin?”

“Beth,” answered Athadra. “We were ‘A, B, C’.” She lapsed into another moment’s silence, contemplating the flames and her memories. Just when it seemed Morrigan might prompt her to continue, Athadra chuckled. “Summerday, nine years back. We’d been thick for a couple of years by then, which seemed like forever to us. Beth and me, we could do a bit of proper magic between us, and sometimes we liked to tease Knifey. She liked frosting his hair. Silly little things.”

“But unwise to do too often,” Morrigan supplied. “Especially in view of unfamiliar eyes.”

“Aye,” Athadra said, closing her eyes once more. “That Summerday, we went into Lothering to see the market festival. There were stalls on both sides of the bridge, people from all over the country for miles around come to trade and celebrate the day. It were so hot, though, and the river were mucked up with all the mules and extra people pissing in it all day...” She barked a laugh. “We thought it would be alright to keep cool, you know? We were ten, and Cethlenn were older. She were watching us, but none too closely; the templars took a lot more of her eye, since she knew better than us how dangerous they were.”

“A wise girl,” said Morrigan. “But you used her distraction to ill effect?”

“A boy saw us,” the Warden supplied. “Beth were running her fingers through our hair, frosting it to help us keep cool. Carver usually complained, but the day were warm enough that even he had nothing bad to say. But that boy must’ve known what the touch of magic looked like, and he come running up to us, blabbering. Cethlenn weren’t paying attention just then, and Beth and Carver shut up real quick when the boy started asking us about demons. I...shut him up.” She swallowed, but before the Wilds-witch could prompt her again, she continued. “When I told him to be quiet, he stepped up to me and called me a knife-ear, said we’d all get sent off to the Circle or sent to the Void, stuff like that. He were bigger than us, but not so big as Cethlenn. I should’ve let her handle him.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Morrigan corrected her, softly. “Were I there, I’d have tricked the little toenail back to the Wilds and let him try to find his way home.”

“Aye? Well, I didn’t think of all that. I jumped on him and dressed him down with me fists. Cethlenn tried to pull me off him, but when I almost stunned her, she took her own away before anyone could snatch them up. The tintop who picked me up didn’t even realize I were a mage at first, ‘till the boy came to and blabbed about why he got his nose broken. Then I got to take a long walk with his dad, all the way up to that damned tower.” She tried to sigh, but it twisted into a protracted yawn, and Athadra settled back on the bed. “Never did see Beth nor Ceth again...and now they’re all likely dead.” She closed her eyes against the thought.

“I am...sorry, if that is so,” said Morrigan. “But you have my thanks for sharing your tale of capture.” The witch moved to lay parallel to her, though the bed was large enough and they both were small enough that they hardly noticed one another as sleep rose up to claim them.


	19. Settling Accounts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arl Eamon expresses his gratitude for the Wardens' rescue of his domains, while Athadra plots the next steps of their course. Alistair is convinced to add another duty to his roster, but he receives a keepsake from his own past to help balm the wound.

Redcliffe’s Great Hall glowed dully in the low-burning light of its fire and what few candles the arl could stand. He looked wretched, his face aged half a decade behind that bristled beard, eyes sunken and bruised black with the length of his demonically-induced sleep. Even so, he stood without aid, and despite the losses his family and his arling had incurred, he managed a smile when he looked upon the gathered company. That gaze even took in Athadra, perhaps for the first time.

“My friends,” he whispered, though the hall was quiet enough that his voice carried to the throng’s ears. He sipped from a wooden flask and continued, his voice a feather stronger. “What has occurred here is truly monstrous, and I am told that you all have suffered greatly at the hands of Teyrn Loghain as well.” His eyes settled on the Warden. “You are Duncan’s final recruit; I recall you from your brief sojourn here...so recently, and yet so long ago.”

“Aye, Arl Eamon,” Athadra confirmed. Her head tilted a few centimetres forward in acknowledgement of his authority.

The arl nodded and gulped more of his potion, grimacing a bit at the taste. “Outlawed and elven as you are, you stood fast here when others would have fled, much like Duncan himself at Ostagar. I can never replace my lovely wife, but I have you to thank for my son’s life, as well as what remains of my holdings. Even if these events had not transpired, I would have given you shelter from Loghain’s assaults...now, though, you will always be welcome within my walls. Will you except any boon for your service?” He waited for the elf’s nod and returned it. “Very well...then I declare you, as well as your friends who stood by you, Champions of Redcliffe. None of my arling would yet breathe if you had not made the difference.” A few murmurs passed around the knights and common soldiers set to guard the hall; the honourific was a lifelong title, affording its holder great respect in the named city or territory. Redcliffe hadn’t had a champion for three Ages; not even the exploits during the Rebellion from Orlais had produced any worthy of such notice. Only Heroes were more highly revered in Ferelden and the Free Marches, and even more rarely named.

“Thank you, arl,” said Athadra after a moment’s pause. She bent lower this time, accompanied by Alistair; Morrigan and the Sten stood bemused, either unaware of or apathetic toward the honour they’d been granted. Garahel woofed, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. The younger Warden rose first, looking Eamon in the eye. “I have two other requests.” When the arl bid her name them, she took a breath. “Firstly, I’ve heard tell that the barman what owned the tavern where I stayed didn’t survive the night. Name of Lloyd, I think. If it please you, I would have his tavern as my own, with the lass Bella keeping it up for me while I’m away.”

Eamon frowned slightly; she could not tell if he knew more about the barman’s demise. But then a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Then you intend to make Redcliffe your permanent home?” When Athadra nodded, his smile widened. “That is just as it should be...a Champion living amongst her people. I will have the arrangements made; if this Lloyd has heirs with a claim to his possessions, they must be compensated.” He stole a glance to his younger brother, Bann Teagan, who bowed and said that it would be done. “Now then,” Eamon continued. “You had another request?”

“Aye,” Athadra confirmed. “Horses. We’ll need them to help get us around this Blighted country quickly, to get back here with news, and to help carry our things.” Her shoulders were getting sore from all of the loot she lugged around in her own pack.”How many can you spare?”

The arl paused at this, stroking through his beard to purchase a few moments of thought. “That...is not so simple.”

Bann Teagan stepped forward. Athadra noticed he didn’t wear a stitch of black this evening. “The stables were left untended during the...ordeal. Some of the steeds were killed by the corpses, and most others bolted in the confusion. We have but a few destriers, belonging to the knights who’ve returned.”

The Warden nodded, a frown tugging at her lips. “Can you not search for the fled beasts?”

Teagan’s nod was small but emphatic. “We are combing the countryside, but recovery efforts are slow. Regardless, we need every steed we can muster, weakened as we are.”

Eamon cleared his throat. “I can honestly make no promises, Warden...but certainly the task before you will not be resolved in a matter of weeks. I am given to understand that you intend to seek the aid of the dwarves to combat the darkspawn?” When Athadra nodded, he ignored her heaved sigh. “I do not presume to advise the Wardens, such as you are,” he assured them, taking Alistair’s measure as well. “But if I might make a suggestion...if you can, seek refuge beneath the ground, in Orzammar. Loghain’s agents there will be few, if any. When you return, our stables shall likely fare better, and we can see about adequately mounting you all.” The arl’s eyes swept over Athadra’s menagerie, lingering for just a moment upon the hornless Qunari, who towered over even the largest of the arl’s guard.

Athadra bit her lip. “We will consider it,” she said at last.

“Good,” said Arl Eamon, before turning his attention more fully on Alistair. “Before I return to my rest, there is another matter that cannot wait.” His voice had grown weak again, and he steadied himself with a hand on the table. “Alistair, you know of what I speak. We have both dreaded this day, in our own ways, but it has come to pass.”

Alistair raised an eyebrow, nonplussed. “I don’t suppose you mean that you’re abdicating the arlship and joining a mummery, I suppose,” he rattled off, his smile falling just short of his eyes.

Eamon looked uncomfortable, but another draught of his potion helped to steady him. “I can see at least some portion of the jester has returned to you,” he allowed, his own smile a touch more genuine. The affection seemed to take Alistair off his guard, and Athadra felt the weight of his mother’s amulet in her pocket--she really would have to pass it along, soon. The arl heaved a sigh and continued. “You know well that Cailan, Maric’s trueborn son and your half brother, has not been seen since the slaughter at Ostagar. It is presumed by all, and claimed by the usurping Teyrn Loghain, that he is dead. I am in no fit state to contest this claim, neither physically nor politically. But you are.”

It was Alistair’s turn to look uncomfortable; Athadra was frankly surprised when he didn’t try to pass his ill humour off as a bit of bad cheese, but instead fairly whimpered. “Don’t I get a say in this? I never...you know I’ve had no ambitions to the throne...or anywhere else, really. You saw to that.” The not-quite-templar’s brow drew down, but he could not draw a proper rage against the arl.

“Many assumptions were made, I’ll admit,” Eamon pressed on, drawing up. For a long moment, a shadow of his former magnificence shined through his skeletal frame. “But every day Cailan’s body grows colder, while Loghain’s thirst for power outpaces even the Blight. Notwithstanding his designs on my own person, each day come new reports of distress in the bannorn or machinations from the capital. Already he has proclaimed himself regent in his daughter’s name, and while Anora is capable enough, she has borne Cailan no heirs, and has not a drop of royal blood.” He put up a hand to forestall any interruption; the effort of speaking at such length visibly sapped his strength, but he would brook no argument. “Nor have I. For the sake of expediency I should have to prostrate myself at Loghain’s feet in order to avoid suspicions of avarice on my part, and while that might avoid the civil war which builds at this very moment, it will not be the road to permanent peace.”

“As though there ever were such a thing,” Morrigan muttered with a half-concealed laugh. Athadra felt her own lips curl, but the arl pressed on.

“As reluctant as you are to take up your father’s mantle, Alistair, know that in your chest beats the heart of Calenhad. Without his blood, we shall be reduced within an Age to warring teyrnirs.” The last of Eamon’s strength threatened to leave him, potion or no, and Teagan moved to ease his brother into a chair. “You will not be alone on the throne, boy. There will be time aplenty to craft in you the art of...governance. Once this Blight business is done.” He swallowed with some difficulty, nodding toward the mage, who waited in the shadows.

Athadra pulled back a step when the templar’s helmet glinted in the low light, though the knight’s attention was singularly focused upon the healer. “Aye, well. We ought to leave you in peace, good arl. We’ll be staying the night once more, and then we’ll be off.” Off to fulfill those Blighted treaties everyone seemed so keen on...everyone but Athadra, it seemed. The arl nodded his dismissal and Athadra’s party dispersed back to their chambers. Alistair grumbled, but Athadra paused at the doorway.

“Arl Eamon?” She bit her lip, waiting for the ill man to acknowledge her presence. He looked older by the minute. “What is to become of Jowan, if he still lives?”

Teagan stepped forward after sharing a glance with his brother. “I conveyed the concerns you expressed at table, and they have proven sufficient to stay my brother the arl’s hand...but Jowan cannot go free from this castle. Ser Elgar will accompany him back to the Circle Tower, once the healer’s work is done.” Athadra resisted looking at the unnamed mage, lest the templar’s gaze stray, but she felt a resentment simmering on the man’s behalf. With a nod of her own, the Warden turned heel and headed up the steps after the bastard prince and, if Eamon had his way, heir-apparent.

“A word, Alistair?” She paused at the head of the stairwell, so that he had to turn back. He looked put-upon and angry, almost accusatory, but Athadra was still too weary to spar with him. Instead she fished for his mother’s amulet and held it out to him. It took him a moment to understand, but he took up the locket, his face melting in confusion. “I found it in Eamon’s study,” she said, disdaining any more lies just now.

“The arl’s study?” A brow cocked, but it was in surprise rather than incredulity. “This...was my mother’s. I can see where I broke it. Look here--the hinge has been repaired.” He showed her the silver post that held the joint together, out of place in the wood that made up the servant’s trinket.

“Sorry I didn’t give it to you then, but with one thing and another...” Athadra shrugged.

Alistair had no thought for explanations. He shook his head. “This is amazing. All this time, I thought it was lost...I thought the arl had washed his hands of me.”

The brow which quirked now belonged to Athadra. “Perhaps you meant more to him than he let on? Might be he thinks you worthy of seeking the high chair, as well as lucky?”

The larger Warden breathed a sigh. “Maybe you’re right. And if it keeps Loghain from sleeping easier, I guess it couldn’t do too much more harm to let about that I’m fighting for my father and brother, as well as for my country.” He shook his head and took Athadra’s measure. “Thank you,” he pressed, looking far grimmer than she was accustomed to seeing. Then he cracked a genuine smile. “I didn’t know you thought about anything other than subverting the Chantry and talking to Sten.”

Athadra rolled her eyes. “I’m just full of surprises. You watch.” When he’d gone on to his room, she made her way to the Sten’s refuge, waiting for him to respond to her knock. The gift to Alistair had stirred another question of generosity within the mage, and she was curious to see how her proposal would be received. Upon the Qunari’s bidding, she entered his room; the mismatch was nearly comical. It seemed little more than a cupboard with a pallet, upon which the Sten sat with his legs crossed.

“You sleep here?” Her dark brow quirked up as she scanned, noting that the four corners held the Sten’s arms, armour, and what few possessions he’d deigned to acquire on their journeys thus far.

“My meditations occasionally lapse into dreams in this room, yes. Were you thinking of appropriating it?” The Sten’s strange eyes beheld her in the semidarkness, for the room lacked even a fireplace, instead lit by a pair of small tallow candles. “Yours is far less defensible, but I shall take it, if you require more secure rest.”

Athadra couldn’t contain the chuckle that rose in response to his suggestion, but she shook her head. “No...I’m comfortable sleeping in a proper bed. I don’t think Morrigan would let anything into our room that meant us harm.” She ignored the dark flicker of his expression at mention of the Wilds-witch’s name, and pressed on. “You told me of your sword a while back. That you lost it on the Western bank of Lake Calenhad.”

At this the Sten’s features turned placid. “What of it?”

“In the morning, we’re setting out. South first, to see if our stick will actually raise a golem, but then we’re heading up to Orzammar. We’ll be hitting the Imperial Highway as often as we can to save time; if you wish, we can keep an eye out for any signs of the battlefield where you fell to the darkspawn.”

“That is...foolish, but noble.” The Sten frowned. “I do not expect to ever be able to return to Seheron, but if you can prove me wrong, I will never forget it. Search, then, if you will.” His gaze lingered, but Athadra only nodded, backing out of the small room, intent to reclaim her own...it would be the last night she’d get a proper bed for a month or more.

 


	20. Skin and Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athadra leads her companions out of Redcliffe once more to make good on another Grey Warden treaty. Along the way, they investigate a curious metal rod passed along by a trader, said to command a living statue known as a golem. Along the way to the dwarves' gates, Athadra also happens upon an old battlefield that just might contain the seeds of Sten's redemption.

Most of Athadra’s motley crew had seen the terror of the darkspawn before; only Leliana and Zevran had made it to Haven and back without having to face the beasts on the battlefield. The road to Honnleath served as their initiation, then, for the horde had splintered since ransacking Lothering. One tongue of the throng licked across Southwest Ferelden, burning out whole villages with no force to check, or even to harry, their progress. In Honnleath proper, the beasts infested every house and alleyway; the surviving townsfolk owed their good fortune to the presence of a resident mage named Matthias more than the untimely arrival of the Wardens.

Whether Matthias was apostate or Circle-bound and somehow at liberty Athadra never learned, for the human mage took an instant dislike to her the moment he found out about the control rod that had motivated their journey South. Athadra had tried the rod’s password on the stone figure to no effect, and Matthias confirmed that the phrase was incorrect. The golem had belonged to his father, Wilhelm, who’d fought at Maric’s side during the Rebellion. That service had purchased the man his freedom from the Circle, which he’d spent building an underground laboratory and conducting magical experiments. Now Matthias’ own daughter had gotten herself lost in the magical labyrinth her grandfather had built, and Matthias held the true password hostage to her rescue.

Cursing under her breath at having to save another child, Athadra fought her way past the magic defenses of Wilhelm’s laboratory, only to discover that the child in question was conversing with yet another Desire Demon. Try as Athadra might, she could not persuade the girl to distance herself from the creature, and the demon wound up possessing the girl. Athadra didn’t like that, but it wasn’t her fault that some batty old mage had kept a demon as a pet in the first place; if Matthias ever discovered the truth, he’d have his father to blame. For once, Alistair swallowed her rationale without protest; spending the day fighting through darkspawn had evidently reminded him that he wasn’t a templar.

“Dulen harn,” Athadra spat at last, standing in front of an enormous stone statue. A few buildings still smoked around them, and darkspawn corpses were already rotting on the dying grass, but what happened next caused the Warden to forget her foetid surroundings; the statue’s limbs began to grind, a new light shone from behind its eyes, and the clear crystals adorning its chest and back sparkled as it moved in the dim light of the clouded sun.

The very ground shuddered when it shook off the remnants of its hibernation, and its voice took the quality of grating stones, though with a deeper melody that made it more bearable to hear. “I knew that someone would have to find the control rod someday,” it said, surveying Athadra’s group before fixing upon the short Warden with the bent metal stick. “And it had to be another mage. Typical.”

Athadra’s lip quirked. “A bit sassy for a standing stone, aren’t you?” If she was surprised that the newly-awakened creature had identified her magic, she didn’t show it.

The golem’s expression shifted glacially, the pebbles in its head giving life to its face. “I suppose it expects me to do its bidding? That must be why it came all this way?”

“I were looking for some help,” Athadra admitted, gesturing to the carnage of the village around them. “Me and the big blondie are Grey Wardens, you see.”

Something akin to a frown assembled itself on the golem’s lips. “Ahh.” Then it looked confused. “I can...talk? Give voice to my thoughts?”

“Evidently,” Alistair supplied, causing Leliana to stifle a giggle.

The golem shook its head. “No; I could always speak, but never really talk. ‘Yes Master you are the Master I live to serve the Master...’” The giant’s voice grated in a dull monotone for that last, but animation returned when it spoke again. “Quick, command me to do something.” It looked directly at Athadra, seriously.

The mage hesitated, casting about. “Give that other elf a hug,” she suggested, eyes lighting upon Zevran. The assassin pulled a shocked face and began backing away, cursing in Antivan, but he needn’t have worried; the golem stood as still as though it hadn’t been activated.

“No,” it said quietly. Then, with greater relish, “no!” It repeated the protest, clapping its rocky hands together loudly enough to send nearby birds flying. The motion caught its attention and it shook its fists, cursing the damnedable feathered fiends, apparently having forgotten its audience. A few moments later it managed to recover. “I suppose that means...I am free,” it mused at length. “The control rod is...broken?”

Athadra hefted the bent bar. “Seems that way. Catch.” She tossed the control rod in a long arc, and the golem clapped both hands around it instinctively. By the time the golem was done, the rod had been torqued into a kinky ball of iron, with no discernible beginning.

“Does this mean it does not wish to command me?” The golem’s head tilted.

“Like I said,” Athadra replied. “Alistair and I are Wardens. Everyone else here is following me for their own reasons. They can leave anytime they wish, but while they’re with me, they follow where I go. I’ll be honest; I came here looking for a big rock warrior to help kill darkspawn with me.”

“With it? Not for it?” The golem’s brow ridges shifted dubiously.

Athadra hefted her axe in response, still stained with ichor. “I don’t ask anybody to do anything I won’t try. I didn’t even know a golem could have a will to exercise, but I’m not put off. Go, if you want...or leave with me, and help save the world.” Even as she spoke them, she felt the hollowness of her words.

The golem considered for a long time, looking from the ruined hunk of metal in its hand to the diminutive mage leaning on her waraxe and back again. “I am Shale,” it said at last. “And as long as we get away from this miserable little village, I will come along with it. For now.”

The Warden grinned, privately relieved that slaughtering the darkspawn and saving Matthias’ little girl had been worth it. “I’m Athadra. You’ll get to know the others on the way...for now, though, we should move on before the next batch of darkspawn show up.” Her pronouncement was met with general assent, and the only delay in the group’s departure was Shale, pausing to stomp some hitherto-lucky chickens. It was small recompense for the years of stains which covered much of the golem’s torso, but Shale seemed satisfied.

“Where is it going?” asked the golem, looking out on the grey landscape and unable to restrain its wonder.

“North,” Athadra supplied. Then, a moment later, “Orzammar. Do you know it?”

Shale was surprisingly fleet of foot as it strode beside her; she only felt the smallest tremor with its footfalls. “No,” she said at length, heaving a sigh. “I do not remember much before I took the stance you found me in...vague patches, impressions. I know I hated Wilhelm, always ordering me to do menial tasks. ‘Golem, fetch me that decanter. Golem, bend down that tree so that my son can pluck its berries. Golem, lift me; I tire of walking.’” It shuddered and shook the disjointed memories off. “It must have been thirty years ago. Perhaps more. Eventually the days and nights blended, the monotony wiping away anything I might have done or even been before.”

“About that,” Athadra said. “I heard that you were found in that stance over Wilhelm’s mangled corpse. Any chance you had a hand in that?”

“Oh, I do hope so,” said Shale, wistful. “I cannot remember, but long did I yearn to crush his little squishy head. If only I could remember...”

Athadra noted that the walking statue did not call its former master 'it', but she held her peace. She’d been called much worse, after all. “Let’s make a deal, then. I’ll never ask you to carry me, and you never try and squish me.”

Shale seemed to seriously consider this proposal. “And what of its companions?”

“I’d really rather like it if you didn’t hurt the other mage. Oh, and Alistair. But they can probably handle themselves anyway,” she said in an overloud whisper, casting a wink back over her shoulder at Morrigan. “The only one I insist you don’t hurt is Garahel. My dog.” The mabari woofed argumentatively, evidently asserting its own competence as well, but Athadra merely rolled her eyes.

“Very well,” said Shale. “If it does not seek to ride me, I shall spare it. Its friends would do well to take its example.” The suggestion was met with unease, but none wished to set themselves against the giant so soon. The Sten seemed indifferent; evidently facing defeat at Athadra’s hands had earned her his loyalty. Zevran didn’t seem entirely convinced that he wasn’t going to receive a pebbly hug, while Morrigan coolly approved of the newest addition, and that was more than enough for Athadra.

The party put Honnleath behind them, and Shale proved more than competent at directing its misanthropy at the darkspawn; soon they’d carved their way back to the Imperial Highway, and from there the travel came much more quickly. The Warden’s tent found itself inexorably nearer to Morrigan’s, and the two mages could be seen conferring in the early morning mists. Leliana joked that the Wardens in Ferelden had become a magocracy, and Athadra took to the jest with abandon, from then on referring to their campsites as ‘little Tevinter’. In just a few days, they crossed the field where a sudden surge of darkspawn had taken the Sten and his original companions by surprise. The Sten had lost his sword, while the other Qunari had lost their lives, yet the Sten thought his companions had got the better of the bargain.

This evening, there was no sign of the fiends which had disarmed the Sten. Instead, a lone scavenger grubbed along the ground, amidst what might, once, have been fully-armoured warriors. Now the squad of proud Qunari lay emaciated, skin stretched taut over fleshless bones. Athadra marveled at their size before the smell hit her; each had been at least a head taller than the Sten, and each skull had a pair of dark horns sweeping from it, reminding her of the crude depictions she’d seen during her studies at the Circle Tower.  But these corpses were long dead, and what the crows had spared stunk to the very edge of the Void. Athadra gagged, and she wasn’t the only one; Leliana said a quick prayer and turned away. The scavenger alone seemed unfussed, only taking note of the pack of interlopers once the Sten growled.

“Whot yew dewin’ here? This’s my spot. Bought ‘er fair and square, so back off.” He looked defiantly from Athadra to Alistair, but the defiance slowly drained from his face when he took note of the number and variety of the troop that assailed him.

“Bought it, did you?” Athadra quipped, careful not to breathe more than she absolutely had to.

The scavenger’s face fell. “Yeh. Don’t say it; I got cheated...got told there was all kindsa steel and silver ‘ere. When I got ‘round, there was nout left but the bones and th’ dirt. I fink I found a glove, tho’. At least it mighta been a glove...looks a bit gnawed, t’be honest.”

The Sten growled low. “From whom did you purchase this information, human?” His face held a spark of animation Athadra had not yet seen, and she imagined the passion which had landed him in the cage back in Lothering wasn’t entirely dead. He unsubtly reached for the hilt of his greatsword.

The scavenger backed away, tripping over one of the corpses. “Now just hold’er a minute, there. I trucked with a trader, name o’ Faryn. Squirrelly ickle bastard ‘fy’ask me. Which you didn’t. But I said it anyway...” Sudden fear made him babble, but the Sten retreated a pace, the veneer of calm returning.

Athadra stepped forward in his place, breathing through her mouth. She unshouldered the double-bearded axe she wore, planting the spiked end between her feet. “Where can we find this Faryn?” When the man hesitated, the Warden felt her mana surging into her limbs, and she gripped the haft of her axe until her own gloves creaked on the wood. “Got lots of good steel here, little man, and it’ll stay right with us if you’re speedy.” A glance at Leliana was all it took for her to knock an arrow, and even Alistair didn’t hesitate too long in readying his weapon.

“All righ’, all righ’!” The scavenger’s loyalty to the trader ran just a bit too shallowly to hold out. “Caugh’ him goin’ up the road, said ‘e was headin’ to Orzammar. If you’re quick, you’ll catch’em. Please...”

Athadra inclined her head, frowning. “Go,” she allowed, before shouldering the axe and turning toward the Sten. They shared a slow nod. “Should we dispose of them?” She motioned to the stripped and rotted bodies behind them.

The Sten shook his head. “Their husks have no value, and everything useful has already been stolen. Would that I could at least recover a gauntlet...” He broke off, frowning.

“It’s still my aim to get you your sword,” Athadra assured him, before turning to the Highway. “On, then.”

And on they went. “Does it always take such detours at the whim of its friends?” Shale mused to no one in particular, but if anyone responded, Athadra did not hear.


	21. Loyalties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wardens reach Orzammar's gates, and are very nearly turned back. Once inside, Athadra finds herself in the middle of another crisis which must be surmounted in order to attain her ultimate goal; the King of Orzammar lies dead, and two factions vie to fill the throne. Athadra must decide which candidate to throw her weight behind, and hope that she can tip the scales before First Day.

Athadra found Faryn loitering in a makeshift bazaar just outside of Orzammar’s gates, halfway up Gherlen’s Pass. She’d read that the Avvars believed that the pass had been cut through the mountains by the dwarves themselves, and that it was named for the surface dwarf who had overseen the project. From what little Athadra knew of dwarven society, the fact that Gherlen lived above ground would have been enough to strike him from their records, called the Memories...no matter how striking the feat would have been. Regardless, this part of the pass had been clearly etched by dwarven industry, leading to the gates. After Faryn had sworn to the Maker that he’d passed Sten’s sword onto a surface dwarf named Dwyn, who resided in Redcliffe of all places, Athadra had promised to look into the matter again when they emerged from Orzammar.

Except that, to emerge, they would have to enter Orzammar. That task proved trickier than expected; though Alistair insisted that the dwarves respected the Wardens because they came from all over Thedas to face their deaths in the Deep Roads, killing as many of the fiends as they could strike, the guard was adamant. Half a month back, King Endrin Aeducan had returned to the Stone, as the dwarves termed it. Dwarven succession was evidently a convoluted affair, but the guard made it clear that no outsiders were welcome in the city until the throne had an arse in it again.

Of course, one of Loghain’s agents was already there; he’d come just two days too late to curry favour on the teyrn’s behalf, though the man insisted on calling him King Loghain. That rose eyebrows in Athadra’s gang; either this fool was bluffing to make himself seem more important to the dwarves, or Loghain had fallen into a deeper ambition than even Eamon had suspected. Once the man learned Athadra’s identity--indeed he only seemed concerned about Athadra, which made her grimace--he challenged them. He wasn’t alone, precisely, but his allies consisted of a rogue mage and an upjumped bandit, seeking silver in Loghain’s service. Athadra might have taken the lot herself, but she had Alistair, the Sten, an honest-to-goodness golem, another mage, two rogues, and Garahel.

When the fighting was done, Loghain’s men were dead and the guard seemed sparingly grateful. He would not be stirred until Athadra fished out those gods-damned treaties; once the dwarf glimpsed the royal seal they contained, he reluctantly agreed to allow them entry. The gate lifted, and everyone shuffled into a stone box that seemed to lead nowhere; the light of a few braziers guttered when the stone gate closed behind them again. There were more dwarves guarding the walls, and for just a moment, Athadra feared they’d walked into some kind of trap...but then the ground trembled at their feet, and she saw that the walls grew taller around them. It took her another moment to realize her error; the floor was dropping, though slowly, and they could do nothing but wait as the shaft swallowed them up.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Alistair said, much less certain than he’d been on the surface. Athadra shrugged, content to wait as the mountain grew over their heads. She couldn’t tell if it was a moment or an hour later when the floor subtly halted its descent, and the stone in front of them parted to reveal a high-ceilinged hall, lined on each side with more statues. Light glowed about them, and the heat it gave off told her that it was raw earth, fire-earth the dwarves called magma, which lay in well-dug channels to either side of the main thoroughfare.

More impressive sights lay beyond that entryway; through a heavy door of iron Athadra’s party emerged into a great chamber that seemed to mirror the mountain from which it had been cut. She looked and looked, but could not see where the walls closed in upon them. A great river of magma flowed through the middle of the space, and dwellings had been carved on the walls to either side. This was Orzammar, the city beneath the Frostback Mountains...the last bastion of the dwarves against the darkspawn. But the marvels the city offered were nothing compared to the spectacle of dwarves fighting at the crossroads--two factions vying to have their candidate put on the vacant throne. One dwarf died before the guards could restore order, and the partisans only reluctantly split up, their leaders enclosing themselves in the rich district called the Diamond Quarter.

Athadra sighed to herself; she needed the dwarves, or at least needed their hospitality. What gold she’d manage to collect would not last if she had to pay for accommodations herself, but it was clear that there were no ears to hear her without a king.

“So we shall have to sort these people out as well?” Morrigan scoffed as they strolled through the small market, just outside the Diamond Quarter. Some dwarves stared at Shale, but it called insults at the ones who tried to get too close.

“Looks that way,” the Warden said, heaving a sigh. Just then, a glint of gold caught her eye, and she nodded Morrigan on ahead. Alistair raised a brow, but she motioned for him to follow, and the rest of the party ambled on without her. The merchant was rude at first, thinking her blood- and travel-stained armour was a mark of poverty, and he scoffed when she pointed to the trinket. But when she let slip that she was a Grey Warden he changed his tone so quickly that it was nearly embarrassing...but Athadra did not talk him down from the discount he offered for the honour of a Warden’s custom.

The mirror was heavy in her pack, heavier than the gold she’d paid to claim it, but she made sure to hide it away and offered no explanation of her absence when she caught up to the Wilds-witch. “I was just saying,” said Alistair when he caught sight of her, “how it seems that the closer to the surface you live, the better off you are. Unless you’re actually on the surface.”

“It thinks itself clever, does it?” Shale intoned behind him. “Perhaps it will address its cleverness to the short ones, and we can see how well it swims in the bubbling rockmelt?” The golem laughed, while Alistair paled visibly.

“Please don’t cause an inter-race incident, Alistair,” Athadra fairly begged. “Or get yourself killed by anything but the gods-damned Archdemon.” The taller Warden clapped a fist over his breast in salute and offered a wink, but said nothing further. “Aye, alright then,” Athadra said, casting about. “Does anyone know where we might find this empty chair what’s got everyone so fussed?”

Leliana spoke up, as she occasionally did when someone needed information. The girl seemed a veritable fount of it, though Athadra could not tell if the half-Orlesian was showing off or just wanted to prove her worth. “I’ve never set foot here before, but I do know a few tales. The seat of power is the Chamber of Assembly, which is further up in the Diamond Quarter. Though I am not certain how well-attended it shall be, without a king to rule it.”

“Let us be off, then,” the Sten cut in. He eyed a few well-dressed dwarfs warily, who were muttering in wonder at the two giants suddenly in their midst. His eye twitched menacingly, and Athadra stifled a chuckle when the dwarves scuttled back. With a nod she set off, with the rest of her band in tow. They climbed higher and higher until Shale surprised them all, including itself, by reading the dwarven runes which proclaimed the entrance to the Chamber of Assembly. Leliana scoffed, privately, at having her own translation pre-empted.

The Chamber was actually a collection of rooms which ringed around a grand central hall; each subsidiary chamber housed the most prominent families of dwarven nobility, save the antechamber which Athadra’s throng had suddenly filled. Every door was locked, even to the Chamber’s proper hall. A few sleazy-looking dwarfs muttered in corners, but a white-bearded dwarf in fine clothes stood stoically before the Chamber’s great, locked doors. At first he tried to waive them away, until Athadra casually threatened to bring her displeasure to the First Warden. She had to suppress a smirk, since she didn't even know the First Warden's name, but she didn't let the dwarf know that.

The man changed his tone instantly, even giving the elven mage a curt nod. “Forgive me, Warden. I received a message from the gate, but with the tumult in the Assembly, I simply forgot. I’m sincerely sorry that we cannot properly welcome a Grey Warden delegation, but until our throne is occupied, I fear no other business can take priority.”

“Or even get done, it seems,” Athadra said testily. “Did the last throne-sitter realize a Blight was breaking out above before he returned to the stone?” The last phrase was odd on her tongue, but she saw the elegance of the euphemism.

The steward’s face paled. “No, Warden, he did not. I swear it. It’s true, then? The darkspawn have passed Groundbreak?”

“Aye,” Athadra answered. “And Ferelden’s own damned fool king got himself spitted and roasted by the beasts. What’s not under black rot is turning red with civil war. Is there any way these tattered words can be called upon?” She gestured to Alistair, the guardian of the treaties, and he produced the required sheaf which spoke of the ancient dwarven promise.

The steward looked the document over twice, his expression softening for a moment, before consternation took hold of his expression. “I’m sorry, Warden. This treaty compels our king to send his army to your aid. But while Endrin’s succession is under dispute, Orzammar has no king, and the army has devolved to the command of the deshyrs.” He folded the parchment reverently and handed it back to Alistair. “I would never normally suggest this, but the deshyr lords have been at cross purposes for two weeks now. The same arguments every day, every hour. Nearly every free dwarf in the warrior caste is employed to keep order in the streets or in the Chamber itself, but they won’t be able to stop tensions for much longer.”

His pause lasted for an instant longer than Athadra liked. “Out with it, greybeard,” she said at last.

“The throne is contested by Endrin’s son and nominal heir, Bhelen Aeducan, and by Endrin’s most trusted advisor, a deshyr named Pyral Harrowmont. They both have convinced nearly a third of the Assembly to their cause, and the remainder seems likely to split evenly between them, unless...” This time, the steward’s pause ended before the mage could comment. “Unless someone were to tip the scales. I cannot tell you whom to support, Warden, only that Orzammar must have a king to answer your summons. And if nothing changes, there might not be an Orzammar to have a king at all.”

Morrigan groaned beside Athadra, and muttered something too softly for anyone but her to hear. The younger Warden could tell the words were elven, but did not understand them; the smattering of Dalish her grandfather had known was itself an infant’s vocabulary, and he’d passed precious little of it on to his family. Athadra’s curiosity was piqued, but the steward stood before her, demanding her attention.

“Very well, gods be damned.” She ignored the flinches from the Andrasteans in her company. “Thank you, Steward Bandelor. Is there anywhere my friends and I can sleep, or must we take to the streets and tattoo our faces?” The lowest class of dwarves, called casteless, were so identified. Bandelor looked shocked, and then concerned.

“Normally, Wardens and their auxiliaries are welcome to rooms in the royal estate. It is still occupied by Bhelen Aeducan, however, and taking up residence there will be an unmistakable signal of partisanship. Weigh your options; I’m certain Lord Harrowmont will provide accommodations, if he earns your loyalty.”

With another sigh, Athadra dismissed herself, but she hadn’t made it to the exit of the antechamber when someone claiming to represent Prince Bhelen intercepted her. He had eavesdropped on the exchange with the steward, and promised his lord’s generosity, in exchange for a service on the part of the Wardens. That service involved spreading false documents around which implicated Harrowmont in shady dealings, though Bhelen’s man swore the papers were legitimate. Athadra took them with no promises.

Her throng was stopped yet again by another agent, this time of Harrowmont’s. Evidently, to earn his trust all she’d have to do would be to enter a tournament and fight her way to the championship in his name. The tournament, called a Glory Proving, was to take place in less than an hour’s time. That decided the matter more thoroughly than any difference between the contenders for Orzammar’s throne. Without signaling her own intentions, Athadra tracked down the two deshyrs and convinced them that they’d been wronged by Harrowmont, and before the Proving had even begun, her party was received by Prince Bhelen himself.


	22. Witches Gone Wild

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athadra finds herself yet again in the sole company of Flemeth's daughter. A casually-shared memory gives rise to an opportunity that the Warden cannot let herself ignore, and she manages to set Morrigan's mind at ease, at least for the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has some fairly mild, though explicit, sexual content. A brief synopsis follows, if such content makes the reader uncomfortable. (If the execution rather than the nature of the content offends, the author apologizes.)

The dwarven servant bowed out of the suite, an exquisitely-carved side tunnel to Behlen’s estate. Like the rest of the Diamond Quarter, it was impeccably lit for being dug out of a mountain and all--there was even a basin of clear, clean water which the servant had said would never empty. The stone door glided shut on stone hinges, but didn’t make a sound, even as the latch secured them against intrusion.

“‘Twould appear the dwarven reputation is deserved,” Morrigan announced, sweeping her shadowed gaze across the well-wrought rock. “Though these apartments are but shadows of what the folk are said to have built, before the first Blight.” And it was true, as far as Athadra’s Circle-taught histories were concerned. Dwarven engineers had been the envy of the surface world, and all of Orzammar stood testament to it, much like the crumbling ruins of Thedas stood witness to the Tevinter Imperium’s former greatness. But whereas Thedas had driven the Blights back, the dwarves could not be so lucky. The darkspawn got their name, partly, from their subterranean origins--born in the dark, between the dwarven settlements. There was nowhere else for the beasts to retreat to.

The prince and heir apparent, Behlen Aeducan, looked to take up the mantle of his father and reign over the rump city that the darkspawn hadn’t yet despoiled. He’d been quietly pleased with Athadra’s recent handiwork and her lack of questions about it, pleased enough to offer her and her companions accommodations in return for a promise of further help. The morrow would see them sweeping through Dust Town, the closest thing the dwarves had to a tent city. But tonight they could all rest easy in their granite rooms.

Though the palace had more than enough rooms to spare, with roughly half of the nobility either banned or boycotting the grounds while the throne remained in dispute, Athadra had again presumed to share a room with Morrigan. The Wilds-witch had hardly arched an eyebrow, and even held her tongue when Behlen’s dark eyes took on a bit of a leer. Nevertheless, arrangements were made, and now Athadra and Morrigan strolled around the chamber. It wasn’t large, but the space was arranged quite well, with a sitting area complementing a larger sleeping alcove. The bed was a thick pad lain over a perfectly level slab, bedecked with thick blankets fit for any Thedosian castle.

“Aye, ‘tis impressive,” the elf echoed as she sat her pack on the table. Her axe and daggers had been taken, along with the rest of her party’s weapons, just to make sure they weren’t really agents of Harrowmont’s. That rankled, but not enough to make Athadra turn around and march back to the surface. Instead, she shrugged out of her leathers, casting a sidelong glance at her companion. “I got something for you,” she said at last.

“Oh?” Morrigan paused her unpacking, her expression guarded. Athadra took a breath, ignoring the doubts that threatened her own mind, and nodded. The elf turned to her pack and fished out the small, jewel-encrusted mirror.

“S’not much,” she said, cradling the thing against her chest. “Just a trinket, really.” With a shake of her head, the Warden turned, and held the mirror handle-first to the other woman. Morrigan’s eyes widened for just an instant and her haughty mask cracked, hints of a giddy desire showing at the corners of her face. The Wilds-witch took up the gilded looking glass cautiously. Athadra ignored the sudden thumping of her heart; the freshly-minted Warden had felled an ogre and half the bloody darkspawn they’d come across since--she wasn’t about to let her own nerves get the better of her.

“It is beautiful,” Morrigan intoned, turning the small mirror over in her hands. “It looks...just the same as the one Mother smashed, these many years ago.” The smile at Morrigan’s mouth flickered into a small frown, and her lightly-ochred eyes held a note of suspicion when they landed on Athadra. “You must wish for something in return, surely.”

The Warden’s own eyes narrowed millimetrically, and she took half a step toward her fellow mage. “It’s a gift, Morrigan. Do you not like it?” Her head tilted, and she swallowed the disappointment that threatened.

Morrigan hesitated. “I love it,” she said at last. “‘Tis just that...no one has ever simply given me anything before. Anything Mother bestowed was to a certain purpose, and would be retaken at a moment’s notice. I find it strange, ‘tis all.” A shadow of that child-like smile returned, and Athadra caught her stealing a glance at herself in the glass.

A chill traced across Athadra’s shoulders, and she recalled the Desire Demon’s dulcet tones, from weeks before. “If you must earn it,” she breathed, closing the gap between them with another step, “then I could request a boon, if you liked.” The Warden’s breath hitched, and Morrigan’s brow rose as high as Athadra had ever seen it arch.

“Speak it,” Morrigan answered, suspicion and curiosity blending in her voice.

The Wilds-witch was two inches taller, and Athadra was close enough that her head reclined to keep the other woman’s eyes in view. The Warden’s heart hammered in her ears, and she gathered her courage in a breath. “No need,” she whispered. Before she could rethink it, Athadra leaned up and grazed her rough lips low across Morrigan’s cheek. Then she stepped back, out of Morrigan’s reach. The witch’s green-gold eyes held nothing but surprise for half a heartbeat, and she seemed not to breathe for a moment longer. Athadra’s own breath came nearly as quick as her pulse. “I could take another, if you don’t think that one settled us up.”

Morrigan’s brow drew down, and she licked her lips thoughtfully. “That was...most unexpected.”

“Were it, now?” Athadra’s head tilted to one side, and she let her own crimson eyes trace down Morrigan’s long neck, stopping just where the Wilds-witch wore a thick necklace before her gaze reclaimed the other mage’s. “Were it also unwelcome?” Morrigan frowned, but did not respond, and Athadra held on to that indecision.

“I cannot say, exactly.” Another long pause, and Morrigan turned, placing the mirror with her other things. “I have...little experience with such things.”

It was Athadra’s brows which raised this time, and she straightened up. “You certainly gave Alistair another impression whilst you were needling him,” she pointed out. The Wilds-witch had occasionally hinted at the Chasind barbarians her mother, and eventually she, had taken to bed.

“That is...different,” Morrigan answered, still not facing the Warden. “‘Twas always in service to some ritual or another, which required a certain kind of energy to fulfil. Once it was over, there was always too little life left in the Chasind men to bother keeping them alive.” She paused, as if expecting Athadra to reprimand her for her callousness, but the Warden said nothing. Finally, Morrigan turned, uncertainty still etched in her features. “What do you intend? To claim me for your own?”

Athadra heard a rough voice echoing from her memory, a whispered rasp in her ear claiming dominion, and she shuddered. “Not at all. But I would share your bed, if you’d let me.” Morrigan looked dubious, clasping her hands before her. Athadra could see the calculation just behind her face, and did her best to hide her own.

“And what of your heart?” The question had no bite to it that Athadra could sense, but a voice of caution whispered in her mind.

“Do you mean love?”  The Warden hesitated at Morrigan’s nod. “I don’t even know if I’ll get out from under this mountain alive...what’s the use of worrying about that?”

Morrigan nodded again, more quickly this time. “I agree. Love and beauty are fleeting, and have no meaning.” Athadra noticed the witch’s hands tighten, as though gripping the missing mirror. “Survival has meaning. Power has meaning.”

“Aye,” Athadra answered. “But what’s the good of surviving if you don’t have any fun?” Her lips twisted into a smirk, crimson eyes dancing in the light of the sun-runes. “I like you, Morrigan. When you’re at my side, I know I don’t have to face these demons alone.”

“You have Alistair,” Morrigan pointed out, though she didn’t hide the pleased smirk which spread across her lips.

“‘Til he decides to run me through for corrupting the Wardens,” Athadra replied, taking a small step closer. She reached out and took up the taller woman’s hand, lacing fingers. She felt an odd warmth emanating from beneath Morrigan’s skin, and the witch tensed, on the verge of drawing away.

“It would be the first decision he has ever made...and the last, I can assure you.” Morrigan’s face set again. “Your duty is too great. You mustn’t let anything, or anyone, stand astride it. Even...even I.”

Athadra heard echoes of Flemeth’s admonition, warning that the Blight would swallow everything, in Morrigan’s voice. The weight of her task felt even heavier than the Frostbacks above them, but she nodded. “I won’t,” she promised, gripping Morrigan’s hand more tightly. Slowly she drew the other woman’s digits to her lips, and brushed a kiss across the witch’s knuckles. The Warden was rewarded with a faint shudder from her companion. “I’ll not ask anything about tomorrow, or the day after that,” she whispered against Morrigan’s fingers. “I just want you tonight.”

Morrigan stood there, her caution and interest playing across her features. “Are you certain?” Athadra answered by drawing Morrigan’s long finger into her mouth and nodding. The elf seemed beyond words, and whatever objections Morrigan might have marshalled melted away when Athadra closed the gap between them. Slowly, those rough lips played down Morrigan’s wrist and forearm, and the Warden was pleased when Morrigan’s free hand found the nape of her neck.

The bedpad rose up to embrace them just as Athadra’s kisses found Morrigan’s collarbone; her hands moved on to the witch’s hips, fingers forking through the waist of the rough-hewn skirt she wore. For her part, Morrigan seemed to surmount her doubts, her neck tilting into the elf’s caresses. Her breath drew up short when Athadra’s teeth grazed her flesh, and her hips shifted to ease the Warden’s efforts to remove the leather which hung from them. When her skirt thudded to the stone floor, the witch sought to bring balance to their state of dress by tugging at the Warden’s undertunic, only to find Athadra’s fingers enclosing both of her wrists and levering her arms back onto the bed, above her head.

The elf slid up to straddle Morrigan’s newly-bared hips, and though she was smaller than the supine human, Athadra’s magic and muscles easily overmatched her companion’s strength. Morrigan’s spine arched as Athadra gathered both of her wrists in one hand, and the elf’s head tilted, crimson eyes surveying the woman beneath her. “Stay,” she breathed, a wicked grin curling at the corners of her lips. Morrigan’s expression was inscrutable, but she nodded, and kept her arms crossed at the wrists even when Athadra arched up on her perch. The Warden gathered up her tunic and tossed it away; her skin was bare beneath it, her only conceit to the decade spent wearing robes, and she was gratified to see Morrigan’s gaze darting across her flesh. “Better?”

“Much,” the Wilds-witch whispered with a slight nod. She leaned up as Athadra fell upon her, and the Warden’s lips met hers at last. Athadra’s eyes narrowed, but she held Morrigan’s gaze as her tongue probed past the witch’s lips, and she did not complain when Morrigan’s hands claimed her shoulders. The Warden’s own fingers spread out over Morrigan’s torso, shifting the fitted tunic the witch wore until it went from covering little of her frame to covering nothing at all. Wherever her fingers roamed, she felt that strange heat rising from inside Morrigan, and her own flesh tingled wherever the witch touched her.

At last Athadra pulled back for a gulp of air. “Funny,” she breathed. “I’d have pegged you for an icer.” She could still taste the fire in her mouth as her lips reclaimed Morrigan’s neck.

“There are many ways,” Morrigan panted in reply, “that I may surprise you.” A gasp took her as the Warden’s tongue slithered down the curve of her breast, just as a pair of those probing fingers hooked through the smallclothes that still hung from Morrigan’s hips. Athadra’s own answer was a muffled growl as she drew the witch’s nipple into her mouth, and she was pleased to feel that Morrigan’s heat only increased between her thighs.

The haze of lust took the Warden, building on the need she’d first felt weeks before while in a trance at Redcliffe. That need took her and Morrigan long into the night, and by the time it was satisfied, she was grateful for the solid rock walls around them, which echoed the witch’s pleasured cries and her own more muted responses, and stoically withstood outbursts of magic which occasionally erupted from the both of them. By the time the sun-runes dimmed to signal the passage of late night into early morning, Athadra was blessedly spent and, perhaps for the first time since that Summerday when she’d lost her freedom, she felt a small glimmer of contentment as sleep rose up to claim her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Athadra gives Morrigan a mirror very similar to the one that Flemeth destroyed in Morrigan's girlhood, and she uses Morrigan's delight to propose deepening their relationship. Morrigan eventually accedes, and they share their first romantic encounter.
> 
> To read the 'non-explicit' version of this chapter, click [here](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/9033877/22/Tainted).


	23. Dirty Deeds...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Athadra's long night, she has yet another task to perform for Prince Behlen. She must set herself against the underworld of a city already beneath the ground, and she must convince herself that the blood of so many dwarves must be worth the stability of kingship in Orzammar.

Athadra woke slowly, rolling over to run a hand along the warm body beside her. Her fingers caressed the fur they found, and it took her mind a moment to process how strange that was. Her eyes snapped open to find Garahel leaning his chest into her hand, and a small wave of panic took hold; the Warden sat up, sweeping her eyes about the room.

“Fear not,” she heard Morrigan’s familiar tones from the sitting area, and those gilded eyes glanced at her from the looking glass that Athadra had given her the previous evening. The witch sat in a deep washbasin, and an unoccupied tub stood beside her. “The maids were kind enough to supply us while we slept,” she went on, returning her attention to her own reflection as she continued to adjust the ochre that she liked to wear over her eyelids.

Athadra rose, leaving the dog to roll over and fall back asleep. She stalked over to the tub unselfconsciously, pausing to cast a glance across her companion before sinking into the warm water. “I see you’re already making use of the mirror,” she observed with a sigh, letting the water’s heat seep into her muscles.

“Indeed,” the witch answered with a small, private grin. “But we should not linger, if we are to earn our keep. The would-be king would like your presence as soon as you are able to supply it.”

“Were I really out cold?” The Warden wondered, a brow arching. She’d slept so lightly since leaving the Circle Tower...but the previous night’s exertions must have taken their toll. When Morrigan nodded, Athadra could only sigh again. “I suppose nothing will get done until we see the man.” There were several epithets she could give to the prince but, perhaps following Morrigan’s caution, she withheld them; the walls might be solid enough to withstand a lightning bolt, but they might hold unwelcome ears, nonetheless.

After dressing and feasting on the bread and cheese Bhelen’s staff had provided them, Athadra led Morrigan out into one of the main tunnels connecting the guest wing of the palace. The prince’s confidante, a shady dwarf called Vartag Gavorn, was waiting near the entrance to their suite. He simply nodded at them and took the lead, guiding them to Behlen’s offices--despite his ambitions, the man had not yet moved into the Throne Room. The rest of the Wardens’ party had already gathered in the alcove that served as an antechamber.  Zevran’s eyes lit upon the pair somewhat knowingly, but he said nothing.

“Good morning,” Alistair announced. “Or afternoon. Or midnight. I dunno how anyone can tell down here, to be honest.” He looked around at the dwarves milling about, but none had an answer for him, and he shrugged.

Vartag cleared his throat. “The Prince will see you, now.” He nodded at a guard, and the door to Behlen’s chambers swung outward. One by one, the surfacers filed into the prince’s office. Athadra took up the rear, flanked by Vartag and the guard; the chamber was fairly crowded with her unarmed companions and Behlen’s armed guards.

“My friends,” he greeted, his eyes dark from lack of sleep. Plotting to steal a throne was hard work, evidently. “I’m glad you all slept well,” he said, his eyes hitching over Morrigan and Athadra, and there was no doubt about the recognition in them. “Have you thought over my proposal?”

“That we cut our way through this group of thugs called the Carta?” Athadra’s brow drew down; she didn’t like the idea of being another hired blade, stepping where she didn’t belong. But, as Morrigan had so tactfully reminded her the night before, her duty was clear. If the Chasind were price enough for Duncan, she thought to herself, then these Carta would have to be price enough for her. “Aye. We’ll send them your regards, and let everyone know the reason why.”

That seemed to cheer the man, and his smile was almost genuine. “Excellent. Vartag will give you further instructions, and you’ll get your arms at the door. Now, if there’s nothing else...?” He inclined his head in a dismissive gesture, and Athadra felt a cool pit in her stomach; she wondered if the summons would have been so brief if she’d refused.

In any case, she turned around and led her column out into the palace’s main hall, where indeed her companions’ arms were lain out under guard by the entrance. Vartag filled them in as they walked; the Carta had been taken over by an ambitious woman called Jarvia, who seemed intent on turning the whole city into her playground. He grumbled about the casteless and mentioned something about Behlen’s plan to civilize them, but he would not say more. Instead, the dwarf told the Wardens how to get to Dust Town, the only district in the city where the forgotten dwarves lived. And, ominously, he wished them luck.

Athadra felt her hands sing when she resheathed her daggers, and her shoulders complained only a little when she slung the waraxe across them. The others looked similarly relieved to be reunited with their blades and bows, and each of them breathed easier once they stepped outside of the palace...until they were almost immediately set upon by a band of Harrowmont partisans. Apparently, the enduring respect of the Wardens only went so far...and suddenly Athadra understood a bit of Behlen’s caution, if he couldn’t even secure his own doorstep properly.

“Well, for being so short, these people don’t seem to be very festive,” quipped Alistair. Athadra was about to shoot back at him when the golem, Shale, spoke up.

“A word with it, if it pleases.”

Athadra stopped short, nodding cautiously and moving only to wipe a smear of blood from her cheek.

“It said it required assistance in slaughtering the darkspawn,” Shale pointed out, in its gravel-grinding voice. “Not dwarves.” There was an undertone of accusation that the Warden didn’t care for, but she swallowed her annoyance.

“Aye,” she agreed. “And I had no intention of laying finger on any dwarf. But everyone says we need them to fight the Archdemon, and they don’t seem to want to fight anyone but themselves. And me, now that I’ve done something to help one of them.” Athadra paused and looked around, taking stock of her group. “None of you have to do this thing with me. You can wait here with the back-biting nobles until Jarvia and her gang are a grease spot, even if I have to do it meself.” She glanced at the golem, who seemed to consider.

“I will stay, then,” it said. “Collect me when we have some abominable monsters to crush without mercy.”

The Warden nodded. “Right, then. Alistair, you and Leliana should stay here, too.”

“Hey...” Alistair whined, looking affronted.

“Don’t ‘hey’ me,” Athadra replied. “You’re a would-be king, just like Behlen. You could use our support for him to help secure some for your own. And you,” she looked at Leliana, “could gather some information for us. Find out if the lot I’ve cast us in will wind up dooming this city.” She turned to the remainder of her companions.

The Sten nodded. “Where you go, I follow, Kadan.” The appellation gave her a moment’s pause, but it seemed well-meant, so Athadra made no comment.

“Indeed,” Morrigan answered her silent question.

“Ahh, mi amigas, it looks like we’re going to make a killing of it,” the Antivan elf said with a bit too much relish.

Athadra nodded again. “Very well. Shale, make sure Alistair doesn’t make too much of a fool of himself, if you wouldn’t mind. If this crime syndicate really is a threat to the city, it might take a few days for us to sort out. And if we don’t come back in a week, clear out of here and get back to Redcliffe. It’ll be up to you, then.” Her crimson eyes bored into the man’s face, and for once he had no rejoinder at hand. He only mirrored her earlier nod.

They divvied up supplies, with Athadra taking a greater share of poultices while Morrigan got the balance of the lyrium, and the two groups parted with little fanfare. Athadra marched straight through the Diamond Quarter, blowing past a red-bearded dwarf who made a nuisance of himself to one of the guards, and her smaller group spoke little as they made their way through the marketplaces of the city proper. Only once did the Warden stop, when a young dwarf in a Chantry robe called to her, perhaps thinking the lone human in the squad would be sympathetic.

The dwarves knew little of Andraste, or her cult of the Maker; instead, they worshipped their own ancestors, and ‘the Stone’ from whence they’d supposedly sprung. But this dwarf, styling himself Brother Burkel, had converted to the human religion. He managed to explain that if the Chant came to Orzammar, then the darkspawn would be driven back and the dwarven empire restored...and his only mistake was in asking for help in establishing a sanctioned gathering place for the three or four dwarven Andrasteans.

“No,” was all Athadra had to say, while Morrigan’s laugh had an edge sharper than the Sten’s blade. Zevran, the only one who actually did believe in the Maker and the woman acclaimed as his bride, could only offer a shrug as they moved on to Dust Town.

It took them the better part of that day to even find out where to find the Carta; the organization operated from tunnels carved beneath Dust Town, whose entrances were a well-kept secret. Once inside, they had to cut their way through passages filled with dwarves and their hired mercenaries. Zevran proved his worth several times over by detecting and disarming tripwires and pressure plates, while the Sten took on the Kossith who’d abandoned the Qun and gone mercenary with more of the zeal Athadra had glimpsed a few days before.

The dwarves’ natural resistance to magic didn’t prove as infallible as most seemed to assume, and Morrigan felled her share of the criminals with fire and ice, while Athadra grew ever more adept at swinging her waraxe. Blood flowed freely around the Warden, hers and her enemies’, and she perfected her profane art with the life force in their veins. They proved even more loyal to Jarvia than the warriors in the Diamond Quarter were to Harrowmont, and even as she slaughtered them, the Warden could not reconcile why the circumstances of their births marked them as outcasts for life.

Far above them, the sun set and rose again on the Frostback Mountains, unbeknownst to the Grey Warden and her companions. The party did manage to rest for a few hours in the middle of the second day, though they had little to eat besides mushrooms scavenged from the dusters they’d killed. In the lull, and away from the judgement of the templar and his lay-sister, Athadra hunkered down with her mabari.

“Do you trust me, Garahel?” She put the question to the dog seriously, and he looked back at her seriously, as though he understood the question. She supposed he could; the breed was supposed to have near-human intelligence, bred into them by mages centuries before. After a moment’s pause, Garahel nodded. “Good,” the Warden said at last. “I have an idea.”

The noble beast cocked his head curiously and scooted closer to her in the grimy corner of their tunnel. “We’re running out of poultices and potions, and I don’t want to use them up myself,” the Warden whispered. Nearby, Morrigan stirred in a nap, but she did not wake, while the other two guarded the alcove’s entrance. “But I can suck the life out of anything with blood, especially someone...or something,” she stressed, “that’s sympathetic.”

The mabari’s eyes reflected the low torchlight, and Athadra could see comprehension within them. “It would mean that you stay closer to me, or even hang back to protect Morrigan and Zevran if I need to take a lot,” she warned. “I don’t want to hurt you. Do you think we can try?” After a pregnant pause, Garahel gave a low rumble, and butted his head against her arm. A small grin broke over Athadra’s lips, and she embraced the hound.

The Warden got to practice her idea a scant hour later, when she judge it time to move on, and it worked better than she’d hoped; the mabari fought more cautiously, and recovered quickly after skirmishes. If anyone noticed the red haze that occasionally lifted from the dog at Athadra’s command, they did not comment, and with Garahel’s blood augmenting her own, the Warden saw the Carta driven to ruin. The new leader, Jarvia, met them at long last. She was well-rested and ready for the Warden’s assault, but Athadra was pitiless. By the time the dwarven woman gave up the ghost, the last dregs of her gang lay dead around her, and Athadra’s company fared only slightly better.

The Warden had to heal them all; Morrigan was half-mad from the lyrium she’d drunk to keep her mana flowing. Athadra and Sten both had new scars, despite the elf’s healing magic; the Warden’s gleamed just beneath her right cheek, for all to see. After taking stock of their wounds and the decent loot the syndicate’s remains offered, Athadra and her companions emerged from the Carta’s tunnels surprisingly close to the Diamond Quarter, and Vartag Gavorn himself was waiting near their exit.

His eyes passed over their bloodstained armour and took in their limping gates without reaction. “The Prince will see you now.” He said it as though they’d simply been on a stroll through the market, and he turned for them to follow, slowing his pace only slightly to accommodate their limping.


	24. A Prince's Favour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athadra returns to Prince Behlen after slicing and cursing her way through Dust Town, only to learn that she may yet face more trials to ensure Behlen's accession. She considers her options, and shares her misgivings with Morrigan.

If Prince Behlen was put off by the blood-caked crew in his office, his expression hid it well; he seemed eager, even hungry. “I hear you went through Dust Town and slaughtered the Carta like Genlocks,” he announced, by way of greeting. Alistair and the rest of the group were nowhere to be seen. There were fewer guards this time, and they hadn’t had to surrender their weapons, so Athadra didn’t get too suspicious...yet, at least.

“Last I heard, Genlocks don’t got mothers to mourn them,” Athadra pointed out. “Or friends for revenge.”

The prince waved away the concern. “Don’t worry about that. You’ve already taken care of anyone of influence; it’ll take the dregs years to recover. While you’re guests of the palace, you’ll be afforded every protection.”

Morrigan cocked her head. “We are to remain your guests for the nonce?”

A flicker of a shadow passed across Behlen’s face. “After the disruption in the Assembly, Steward Bandelor has called to recess. We reconvene in a week--seven days, that is. I will try to use your valiant efforts to force the outcome, but recent developments might mean that I can only restore the balance that has lasted for weeks now.”

The Warden felt a flush of anger push past her fatigue. “So we killed those bastards for nothing?”

“Absolutely not,” Behlen assured her. “I have many plans that can go forward now that the Carta has been dealt with. But I fear the outcome I’d most hoped for, an unambiguous victory in the Chamber of Assembly, is in question.”

“So you still need me,” Athadra stated, her lips twitching into a grimace.

The prince nodded slowly. “I know this might seem like a bloody game that’s been good for killing dwarves...but that’s dwarven politics. I also know that your purpose is noble, and I hope you believe mine is, too. Once I’m crowned King of Orzammar, you have my word that my every effort will be at your disposal. We shall unite against the fulcrum of true evil, and drive the Blight from the surface.”

The elven mage didn’t let on that such talk was likelier to convince Alistair, but she had no options, except returning to Redcliffe empty-handed. “So what do I have to do?”

“For now? Nothing. There is still a chance that I can convince House Dace and House Helmi over to my side, since you revealed Harrowmont’s subterfuge to them. If they remain neutral, however, I must ask you and your companions to do your duty as Grey Wardens.” He paused, but Athadra only nodded after sharing a sidelong glance with Morrigan; the Sten and the assassin observed in icy silence. “What do you know of the Paragon called Branka?”

“Not much, I’m afraid,” said the Warden. “What’s a paragon?” She could tell that Behlen was resisting the urge to sigh.

“A Paragon is like a living ancestor,” he explained. “They are declared by the Assembly, in recognition of some heroic deed of benefit to the dwarven people. On acclamation, they automatically transcend the cast into which they were born and found a new noble house. All of the deshyrs in the Assembly owe their names to the Paragon who first founded their houses.” Athadra nodded when he paused, but did not reply. “Branka was born a smith, and she’s the only Paragon declared in over a century.”

When the prince paused again, the Sten spoke up. “What did this woman do to earn such respect while still alive?”

Behlen blinked, but registered no surprise, and regarded the giant with interest. “She developed a way of cooking coal that takes out a lot of the smoke and leaves enough fuel behind to keep the smithies producing fine steel. It cut deaths from lung rot by two thirds.”

Athadra nodded again. “And where in Elgar’nan’s shadow has this Branka gone off to?” The invocation of the elven god raised Zevran’s eyebrow, but the assassin did not offer further comment, perhaps wanting to go unnoticed by the avaricious prince and his guards. Athadra knew Behlen’s answer even before he spoke it, but the words left her stomach cold nonetheless.

“The Deep Roads.” The look the prince gave her was not without sympathy. “I understand you’ve already declined the opportunity to visit them, to inform Lord Dace of Harrowmont’s treachery. Luckily his daughter risked his wrath and abstained from voting in the last Assembly meeting.”

Morrigan took a small step closer to Athadra. “And what makes you think the woman you seek yet lives?” Athadra spared the Wilds-witch a grateful look, and nodded her concord with the question.

“Branka was on a self-granted mission to recover the Anvil of the Void,” said Behlen. He didn’t wait for their incomprehension to show before continuing. “Centuries ago, the ancient smith Caridin Ortan made an anvil that could forge the golems out of stone or steel, and for that he became a Paragon. The Anvil was lost to the advancing darkspawn, however, and none have lain eyes on it in four hundred years. Two years ago, Branka set out with her entire house to find it. Two hundred dwarves, each capable at arms. They could settle into one of the thaigs and live for a decade before getting overwhelmed, especially now that the Deep Roads have been emptied by the Blight.”

“Which is what I aim to end,” the Warden pointed out.

“Then find her,” Behlen said emphatically. “If I cannot become king at the next vote, I will be able to retain enough support to keep the matter undecided until you do. Harrowmont already has a few teams searching for clues--as do I.” His expression twisted into something like a grin. “But I’ve got something I know he hasn’t.”

Athadra’s eyebrow threatened to disappear behind her hair. “Aye?” she inquired, still reeling from the implication--she’d have to take her companions into the Deep Roads, to face an endless sea of darkspawn; she doubted seriously that they’d all decamped for the surface.

“Indeed,” the prince echoed. “I have a map to Caridin’s Cross. Caridin made the Anvil, and forged the golems. If Branka is still alive, she’ll have been there.”

“I’ll have to talk it over with Alistair and the others,” Athadra cautioned, trying to buy herself some time. She wasn’t certain that the dwarves’ support against the Blight was worth forging half-blind into the Deep Roads.

“Of course,” Behlen assured her. “You have the run of the palace until the vote. You can even wander about the Diamond Quarter and the market...but as you pointed out, you might not be welcome in the parts of the Commons where the dusters gather.” He nodded. “Rest here and build up your strength. Ancestors willing, you’ll be able to go up out of Orzammar, rather than further down. Now, if there’s nothing else?”

Athadra shook her head, and left Prince Behlen to his business. Morrigan and the rest followed her, and Vartag informed them that Alistair and the others were at the Shaperate, where the dwarves kept their records. “Where can I find a smith?” Athadra had an idea, and apparently had the time to investigate it.

The dwarf eyed her suspiciously for just a moment, but he seemed to judge the query an innocent one. “Many work alongside merchants at the markets along the Commons, to sell their goods. I would look there.”

The Warden nodded her thanks, and told her companions to rest. “We’ll meet in my quarters on the morrow,” she said, sounding as bone-tired as she felt. “Let the others know.” With that, she stalked toward the chamber she had seen only once before. Morrigan fell into step beside her without a word. By the time they reached the room, the washbasins they’d left had been filled with hot water.

Athadra was almost too exhausted to bathe, but she managed to strip off her filthy leathers and hang up her weapons near the bed; she paid the unused shortsword a passing glance, hoping that she could unlock its secrets. She had only just passed her Harrowing scant months before, after all...just before Duncan had rescued her from a fate even worse than the Circle. The elf didn’t have the experience to truly analyse an object of such power, but she suspected a dwarf might be able to help her.

“Do you intend to stare until your water gets cold, Athadra?” Morrigan’s voice was heavy with relief from her bath, and the Warden had to admit that the sight of the Wilds-witch lounging was enormously more tempting than discovering arcane secrets.

“I’d say that depends on what I’m staring at,” Athadra answered with a little smirk, but she was not long in casting off her undertunic and sinking into her own tub. The water worked on her muscles and her skin, lifting the knots and the blood from her flesh. She’d lost count of how many dwarves she’d felled, and there were bits of each of them swirling around her. She thought of all of the blood she’d already scrubbed away, and she knew that the ichor in the veins of the darkspawn was little different than the lifeblood which flowed within dwarves, elves, and humans. They each spilled with surprising ease.

Oddly, Athadra thought about Brenwyn. She’d eased the old woman’s pain the only way she knew how, and afterward she couldn’t bring herself to face the old man, Aethelbert. From then to now, she’d caused more pain than she’d helped, and no small amount of grief in the process. But she couldn’t stop fighting...couldn’t stop shedding blood. Otherwise, someone would shed all of hers, or the darkspawn would swallow up everything she cared about. And then she saw it--all of Thedas burnt to cinders, fields black and swarming with milky-skinned horrors from beneath the ground. Buildings stained brown with dried blood. And above it all, the Old God Urthemiel flew on corrupted wings and spouted tainted fire, while deep beneath the ground two sleeping dragons remained, filling the Deep Roads with their rapturous song, yearning to be found, to fly free--

Athadra jerked awake, sending bloody water splashing in all directions. The scream was already dying in her throat, but it left her voice rough and raw, and she took a moment to catch her breath. “Bad dream,” she grunted at the Wilds-witch, whose brows had risen in alarm. Morrigan simply nodded as though she understood, and the Warden shuddered, suddenly disgusted by the blood stewing around her. “Bed?”

“As you wish,” Morrigan replied, and together they rose and used their magical talents to dry themselves. The Wilds-witch was the first to reach the bed, and she let Athadra claim the space close beside her without comment. “Your eyes shut only for a moment. What did you see?”

The Warden turned away from her companion, pressing back until her spine met Morrigan’s warm flesh. “I saw the Blight as it might be,” she admitted.

“If you do not stop it?” ventured Morrigan.

“Aye,” the Warden said. “There won’t be anything left of us. The world will fall to the last three Old Gods, unless I kill them.” Her voice was much smaller than her words implied, and she leaned into Morrigan’s touch when the Wilds-witch wrapped an arm around her. “What if I’m not strong enough?”

“You do not have to face them alone,” Morrigan murmured.

Athadra had no answer to that, except to turn into the other woman’s embrace. The Warden shared Morrigan’s gaze for a long moment before nodding, and she rested her face against the witch’s neck. Sleep was not long in coming, but the visions from her dreams were not enough to disturb her from her rest.


	25. Breaking the Spell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Warden consults a dwarven smith about the strange sword she found during her quest to retrieve Andraste's ashes. Rather than selling the blade, she plumbs the secrets of its forging, in hopes of eventually making one more suited to her tastes. A few other adventures befall her in the run-up to the next Assembly vote, and she discovers another fun fact about the Grey Wardens.

“W-w-welcome to Garin Garinson’s handcrafted emporium,” stammered the dwarf behind the stall. He sported a close-cropped beard, but lacked any hair at all above his ears; even his eyebrows were clean ridges of flesh. “What would y-you la-la-like?” His smile was almost too manic for Athadra to consider, but the fine weapons on display held her curiosity.

“Did you craft these yourself?” The Warden ran a finger along the flat of a blade, and she could feel shimmers of magic whisper within the runed etchings in the steel.

“Yes, ser,” the dwarf answered. “B-best in the trade, you know.”

Athadra arched a brow. “Are you alright?”

Garin Garinson looked stricken for just a moment. “Oh, yes. I just had an...accident, with some la-la-lyrium. Few y-years back, now.”

“I thought dwarves were immune to its raw form?”

“Well, yes,” Garin conceded. “Except don’t handle too much, and don’t breathe in the dust, and d-don’t get it in the ba-ba-ba-blood.” He shrugged with a small smile. “I cut myself, and a little g-got in. Since then I’ve been a little...”

“Loopy?” Suggested the Warden.

“I g-guess so,” the dwarf replied with a blink. “But not when I’m forging; then my hand’s as steady as a sta-ta-tatue, I promise you.”

Athadra considered for a moment, casting an eye over the daggers, hammers, and shortswords on display.  “I found a sword up topside,” she said, tilting her head and pointing to the hilt jutting over her shoulder. “I’d like you to take a look at it, if you wouldn’t mind.” She knew better than to draw a blade without warning in the busy marketplace.

“Sa-sa-shure,” Garin said, curiosity curling around his beard. Carefully, Athadra pulled the sword from her shoulder, leaving the waraxe undisturbed. When she laid the blade across Garin’s table and flipped open the oilcloth that wrapped it, Garin straightened up, his eyes widening.

“What do you think?”

Garin ran a finger down the length of the blade, and he seemed to lose his tremor. “She’s certainly old, but dwarven-made, no doubt about it. You can feel the lyrium in her folds.”

Athadra nodded. “Aye; she feels almost like a mage’s staff, instead of a sword.”

The dwarf looked up at her with awe and longing in his eyes. “What would you take for her?”

The Warden paused, frowning slightly. Shale and the Sten were close by, both competing for whose silence was stonier. She glanced back at the Qunari and thought she could see him nod slightly. “I’d like to know how she was made, and to learn how to make a bigger one, if I can.”

“That will take da-days,” Garin warned her, though he didn’t seem put off by the prospect. “And she will ba-ba-be destroyed.”

The Warden shrugged, gesturing to the daggers at her hips and nodding at the axehandle jutting over the other shoulder. “I’ll live, and I’ve got time.”

“Very well. Ca-ca-come back in an hour; my wife will be here by then, and we can g-go to the Iron Quarter and see how the blade la-la-likes my forge.”

Athadra nodded and took up the shimmering sword again, feeling it pull at her mana. Just over a month without using a staff had subtly changed her relationship to her magic; it was rougher and weaker, certainly, but it also felt more instinctive. She hoped that she could keep that aspect if she managed to make herself a respectable blade that sang to her mana like the one in her hand.

The Warden returned at the appointed time; Alistair rounded out her retinue, and she was pleased to see that Garin’s wife had indeed shown up to help him hock his creations.  She only grunted when he introduced her as Borla, obviously unimpressed that the adventure with the forge would ruin a good blade and not bring in any coin to boot. Without too much delay, Garin led the group to the caverns of the Iron Quarter, the district of Orzammar situated between the mines and the nobles’ estates. The rock walls were pitted with forges and founds, where soot-covered dwarves hammered stone and steel into tools and weapons. Even Alistair had no wit to spare for the brutal efficiency on display by the well-muscled smallfolk.

“There’s really n-no need to be wa-wa-wary,” Garin told them as they got to his own forge. “The Smith Caste stays out of pa-pa-pa-politics.” The giggle which accompanied the pronouncement did little to reassure Athadra, but indeed she saw no partisans championing either Behlen or Harrowmont’s names in these glowing halls. “Karrik,” he called, and a much younger-looking dwarf scrambled from the back of the room. He barely had a beard budding, but he grinned as broadly as Garin.

“I’d heard there were Grey Wardens about,” the boy said, excited. He took the Sten’s measure. “I didn’t know there’d be so many, though, or so tall. How’d those two fit?”

“Na-na-now, Karrik, the W-Wardens are our guests. Be a good boy, and sta-sta-stoke up the f-forge, will you?” The older man gave Athadra a long-suffering shrug when the boy went to work on the bellows. “He’ll grow up to be a fa-fa-fine smith, just like his f-father,” said Garin with more than a trace of pride. “Borla still wants a merchant, though,” he concluded wistfully. “W-wouldn’t mind one, m-myself.” He nodded at them.

“Right,” Shale’s voice grounded. “Because its caste is determined by that of its alike parent.” Garin nodded, and the golem harrumphed...or did as much as grinding stone could convey. “Fleshy creatures are so arbitrary. Let us get on with smashing something.” Athadra voiced her accord and drew the blade once more.

The dwarf took it up again, and his eyes cleared. “Spellweaver,” he said thoughtfully, running a blunt finger down the rune etchings. “That’s her name. It feels like she’s been made like a staff.” That confirmed Athadra’s suspicions.

“Do you think you could make another like her?” The Warden asked, daring to hope.

“I’m not sure,” Garin replied. “She’ll have been triple-tempered, hard to get into. Give me some time, and I’ll be able to answer more certainly.” The Warden noticed that Garin’s stammer had evaporated.

“I’ve got seven days before I leave, one direction or the other.”

Garin nodded three times and strode over to the furnace that his son was priming. The coal within hissed and burned brightly, but let off only a little bit of vapour, which the furnace could easily vent away. The dwarf thrust Spellweaver in the midst of the glowing coals, and then told them to wait. Every ten minutes he checked the sword’s colour, but it took more than an hour before he pronounced it acceptable, and he set to work.

Both Athadra and Karrik watched Garin keenly, though the rest of the party seemed more uncomfortable. The day was spent with hammer and anvil and fire, and by the time that the smith gave up, Spellweaver had been straightened out and rolled into a tube, though the lyrium still kept the steel taut. Garin set it to rest in the fire again, and told them to come back the next morning.

In all, three days passed like that; Garin even let Athadra strike at the steel once or twice, once he’d drained the lyrium from it. He and Karrik pored over the metals, magic and mundane, that had gone into making the blade. When the process was finished and the sword was naught but a bar of wrought iron, the smith told her that he’d have to confirm some of his ideas with work of his own or with his colleagues.

“I’m sorry I ca-can’t give a better answer,” he said at the front of his forge. “B-but if we can c-crack this, I tha-tha-think we can improve all m-mages’ weapons, n-not just swords.”

Athadra arched a brow. “Doubt the Circle’ll like that, but we’ll see.” She sighed, unable to hide her disappointment, but she thanked the dwarf all the same. “I’ll try and look you up sometime, regardless.” She nodded grimly and parted, returning to the Diamond Quarter with Alistair and the others; they hadn’t been set upon by Harrowmont’s men for a couple of days, which Athadra was about to comment on when a gang of the screaming thugs tried to rush them near Harrowmont’s estate.

What few neutral guards remained were happy to clean up the bodies for the Wardens, which was almost as much of a relief as returning to the palace. It was simply a matter of waiting until the Assembly met once more; in the intervening days, Behlen put his armourers to work fixing or replacing the worn warclothes that Athadra’s troop had acquired in their travels. The Sten finally got greaves and gauntlets which could fit his limbs, and Athadra opted to replace her leathers with a chainmail suit of red steel. The time spent elsewise was hardly boring, either; Athadra and Shale helped to kill a raiding party which had tunneled into the kitchens of Behlen’s holdings, and two days before the deshyrs were to gather, the Wardens unearthed an adolescent dragon who’d been peacefully slumbering beneath the dwarven throne, evidently for eons.

Behlen declared the dragon’s hoard property of the Wardens, though it was little enough, hidden in a cache in the throne room. Besides a few ancient sovereigns, the dragon had lain on a dwarven skeleton, which still held a pristine broadsword in its fingerbones. Athadra pried it away from the dead warrior’s grip with a bit of difficulty and hefted the blade in her own grasp; it took two hands to hold, and was even longer than her axe, but not quite as heavy. The edge appeared as finely-honed as if it had just come from a whetstone. The elven mage glanced up to the Sten.

“What do you think?”

The Qunari’s violet eyes glanced over the weapon. “It appears ageless,” he said evenly. His lack of scorn was as much of an endorsement as the Warden could hope for.

“Aye,” she agreed. “That sounds like a good name for her.” And with that, the elf set down the axe she’d taken from Father Kolgrim and she shouldered her newly-won weapon. A faint shimmer of magic still clung about it, likely the cause of its longevity, but it did not call to Athadra’s mana the way the now-destroyed blade had.

The Warden spent much of the next day in the drillroom with the Sten, getting used to Ageless’ balance and grip, and the weight of her  new mail. Two months before, Athadra would hardly have been able to lift such a sword or wear anything heavier than mage’s robes; now she was trading blows with a battle-hardened Qunari squad leader and holding her own. Granted, she had to channel nearly all of her mana into her muscles to parry the Sten’s swings and return a few in her turn. A few of Behlen’s own guard watched the mismatched pair, and by day’s end, the dwarves seemed impressed. Despite the many heavy blows that had clashed, Ageless’ edge remained perfect.

As Athadra lay in bed that night, her muscles burned more brightly than they had in a month, but she didn’t try to heal the pain away. It distracted her from the buzz growing in the back of her mind, a slight hum in her blood that set her teeth on edge. She’d noticed it since plunging into the Carta’s caves, but even now in the Diamond Quarter, so near to the surface, she couldn’t fully ignore the sensation.

“Is anything amiss?” Morrigan asked, when she noticed the Warden hadn’t fallen asleep.

“I think I can feel them,” Athadra replied, after a moment’s pause. She flexed her sore muscles and hissed, and for an instant the low pulse was washed out by the pain. She did not like to think of how many darkspawn must still linger underground, so close to the Wilds, where they’d broken through earlier in the year.

“It has been long enough,” the Wilds-witch pointed out. “Whether you wish it or not, you are a Grey Warden. But surely there are other methods at your disposal to take your mind from this second sight?” A finger played up Athadra’s side, and Morrigan’s eyes flickered with intent in the low light of the chamber.

The Warden swallowed hard, and hissed out a sigh. “Aye, I think there are,” she agreed. And soon enough, all of her senses were too occupied to pay heed to the nascent connection with the darkspawn horde that her tainted blood had established.


	26. There and Nearly Back Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The moment of truth arrives for Prince Behlen, and his previous machinations prove insufficient to resolve the Assembly's loggerheads in his favour. Therefore, Athadra must lead her entire cohort into the dreaded Deep Roads to recover the only living Paragon, Branka. Joined by a dejected, drunken, disgraced dwarf, the Wardens slog through the long darkness. They see tunnels and thaigs unwitnessed for centuries, and horrors which will last them a lifetime.

“I thought I’d yelled at a Grey Warden,” the red-bearded dwarf huffed, trying to catch his breath. Athadra arched a brow and looked around, before Alistair’s face glinted with recognition.

“I have seen him before,” the taller Warden remarked. “At Tapsters. Oghren, right? You say you were Branka’s husband?” He had refused to stay behind, proclaiming that he would rather die to the darkspawn in the Deep Roads as a Warden than on the surface as a king.

“Aye,” the dwarf rumbled. “Still am, ‘sfar as I know. Anyway, I heard tell that today was the day. Little nug-humper couldn’t get his sodding vote off in the Assembly, so he’s sendin’ you all out into the Deeps.”

Athadra frowned; the prince had indeed failed to get his acclaim. He’d sent them on their mission with his regrets, and his regards. All of her party stood in sight of the mines, and the complement of guards constantly on watch there to keep unwary dwarves from leaving the city...or anything else from getting in. Their packs were heavy with hardbread and a special paste that Behlen assured them would make their bellies full for hours with a single mouthful. They’d packed enough to last them for half a year, if they were careful. That thought alone was enough to turn the elf’s stomach. “What of it?”

Oghren woozed and stifled a belch, and the faint stink of alcohol rose above the sulfur from Orzammar’s magma river. “Ancestors’ balls, I’ve been tryin’ to get someone in this sodding city to go after Branka for two years.” Suddenly Athadra recalled passing him the week before, the first time she set foot in the Diamond Quarter proper; he’d been making identical complaints to a guard, then. “If you’re goin’ into the Deep Roads lookin’ for Branka, I’m comin’ with you.”

“You don’t say. Aren’t you barred from carrying weapons?” Athadra’s head tilted as she regarded the dwarf’s ale-soaked expression.

“Just in the city bounds,” he said, a bit defensively. The dwarf nodded his head at the line of guards a dozen feet away. “Those are the city bounds, glarin’ at me right now. Whaddaya say?”

Athadra looked around again, at the throng she’d picked up on her journey. Each of them followed at their leisure, but none had balked when she asked them to follow her into the Deep Roads, and none objected to another blade between them and the darkspawn they were sure to encounter. “Very well,” she said at last, and she nodded at the Sten. The Qunari shared a wordless glance and unshouldered the axe she’d recently forsaken. “You’ll have to feed yourself, though.”

“Good,” was all Oghren had to say as he took it up. The haft was taller than he was, but he showed no trouble hefting the weapon. “Deepstalker’s good eats,” he breathed with a chuckle. “You’ll see.”

A rumble went through the line of guards as the newly-enlarged group approached; they weren’t pleased to see the red-haired dwarf with a waraxe, but they parted without challenge. “Ancestors’ favour on your journey,” the captain said with a fist clapped to his chest. Athadra nodded and swallowed hard, and she was the first across the line, into the mines. Orzammar lay behind her, while the Deep Roads stood in front; every step came more difficult than the last until she reached the first in a series of three enormous doors.

Every one of her companions followed her. Oghren clapped hands with a miner who manned the doors, but Athadra did not catch the words they shared. When the miner pulled his lever those double doors slid silently open, followed by the middle set. The third doors would not open unless the first were closed, so the Wardens and their companions had to fill the space between them. When the last line of defence sealed behind them, Athadra’s stomach rumbled again as a whisper passed through her. The door was mangled and pitted from the ceaseless war between the dwarves and the darkspawn.

“Well,” Oghren said with another belch, “let’s get this little stroll started already. Where we goin’?”

The Warden hesitated for another moment before she turned to regard the wide passage of the Deep Roads, before them. “Caridin’s Cross. Behlen’s map tells us it’s that way,” she pointed to the left fork in the Road’s three-way split.

“Pashaara,” the Sten announced. “It draws no closer while we stand, kadan.” Athadra shared another glance with him and then nodded, gripping the hilts of the daggers resting at her hips. Without another word she started marching where the map indicated, into the dank, dim dust of the Deep Roads.

Her blood crawled more than ever; Alistair seemed jumpy as well, his eyes darting around for the enemies that his Warden senses told him were all around. It was half a day before the tension could break, but only because a pack of vicious worm-like creatures on two legs assaulted them. Oghren called them deepstalkers, and seemed all too happy to test out his new axe on the vexing creatures. When the deepstalkers lay bloody around them, however, the sense of foreboding returned.

“Must be the Blight,” Oghren mused a few hours later as they set up camp in a rocky outcropping. “Usually there’s at least a few scouts this close to the city.” He’d brought along a few carcasses, and was in the process of dressing them. The rest of the party took their prepared rations and settled in for an uneasy rest.

The next few days passed similarly, with the whispers growing to a low chorus in Athadra’s mind. The wide Road made easy marching, save the occasional wild bronto they’d have to dispatch or collapse they’d need to navigate around. In all, it took them a week to reach Caridin’s Cross, and when they arrived it wasn’t darkspawn who greeted them at the crossroads’ approaches; instead a small scouting party of Harrowmont’s tried to convince them to turn back. Athadra didn’t even draw Ageless; her daggers and Morrigan’s spells cut through half of the foes, while the rest of her companions quibbled over who’d slain the most.

They didn’t have long to celebrate the victory, though; shortly afterward Athadra’s blood surged with joy as they rounded a corner and stumbled across a clutch of genlocks. She felt something approaching understanding as she engaged in battle with the fiends this time. Rather than overwhelm her, the taint in her blood sharpened her focus, and she lost count of how many of the monsters her daggers claimed before she drew her greatblade.

The settlement of Caridin’s Cross proper did not disappoint her, either. Her mind had no more room for worry when the white-fleshed beasts threatened her on three sides. She couldn’t tell how much time had passed when the last of the hordes melted away. Once her party’s injuries were tended, Oghren pointed them to the ancient colony called the Ortan thaig, where he was certain Branka would have gone.

The Deep Roads were relatively clear between the two settlements, but no one spoke more than a few times during the journey. The gloaming darkness sucked the stories from their hearts, and the passages were too dangerous for each to pitch their private tents. Oghren was the only one who’d set foot into the Deeps before, but he had no advice to offer, fixated as he was on finding the Smith Caste woman he’d taken for a wife. Leliana spoke briefly about her inquiries regarding the two contenders for the throne, but despite her training as an Orlesian bard, she’d been unable to uncover much more than they’d gathered from the criers and the spittle-flecked screams of partisans.

After a few days, the Ortan thaig broke their stony silence, filled as it was with giant spiders and another knot of darkspawn. The hours passed unevenly, furious battle broken by long stretches of rest, until the dwarven colony lay as peaceful as the tomb the darkspawn had turned it into, centuries before. Zevran discovered an uncorrupted journal near to the thaig’s Southern exit to the underground highway, and Oghren couldn’t contain his excitement when it turned out that Branka had left it there, apparently for him to discover.

“I knew she still cared,” he exulted. “Says here she’s taken her folk to Bownammar to try and find the sodding anvil.”

“What’s a Bownammar?” wondered Alistair, a smidge of his wit threatening to return.

It was lost on the dwarf. “It is...or, rather, it was a fortress that was used by the Legion of the Dead.” When that failed to impress, he explained about the Legion--an order of dwarves who pledged their lives to Orzammar’s defence, who took in anyone crazy enough to join them, regardless of their cast or crimes they might have committed. New recruits held funerals before passing into the Deep Roads, and almost none would see their great city again. “Now it’s more like a soddin’ mausoleum than anything. With the darkspawn this thin underground, though, we just might run into the Legion there.”

“And Branka went there, for certain?” Athadra scanned the diary, but could not read the runes scratched on the parchment.

“I’m sure of it, or she tried. It’s...a bit out of the way, if you get me. Almost two of your surface weeks, I’d reckon, if we’re lucky.”

Their luck was tested by the trip; twice, cave-ins diverted them from the Deep Roads proper, and once they even came across a mixed horde of darkspawn in the wide ancient lane of the Road they traveled. The group was beyond maps now; Oghren guided them with the runes in the walls and the distinctive chipping that Branka had made into the rock as she’d blazed the trail the previous year. In all it took them eleven days to comb their way through the passages until their chosen Road petered out to little more than a mineshaft. Not that Athadra could keep track of the time; the low lights which occasionally peeked through fissures in the rock overhead never flickered, but Oghren seemed to know when the sun rose and set far above, though he didn’t bother explaining how.

One wall of the passage dropped away, and their path became something of a ledge to an enormous chasm. Athadra’s blood tingled powerfully all of a sudden and she threw an arm back. “Down!” She didn’t watch to see if her companions had followed her lead, but she simply threw herself to the ground, taking refuge behind a boulder which shielded her from view. Far below them, a formless ocean of darkspawn hived, grunting and bellowing in a distant chorus. Alistair edged closer to her, ducking even lower than she had.

“Do you feel that?”

She looked at him sharply, but nodded; just at the back of her mind, the whispers changed, and she could barely discern an echo of a rapturous song. At once it made her stomach turn and her heart leap with anticipation, and she found herself fighting the idea of throwing herself down the canyon to get closer...except that the song was getting closer on its own, and a moment later, the Wardens learned why.

In the distance an enormous silhouette emerged from the cleft in the rock, its gnarled wings flapping almost lazily. Athadra couldn’t resist peeking around the boulder for a closer look; though it was far away, she felt its eyes lock onto her for an instant, and she froze. It was a gigantic dragon, easily larger than the one they’d spied past Haven, and it was clearly tainted by the corruption which linked the Wardens to the darkspawn. The instant passed when the dragon sent a gout of purple flame high into the cave’s ceiling, and it twisted around, flicking back into the darkness and away from them. The great mass of darkspawn moved as one, following the dragon Southward into the void.

After half an hour, Alistair risked looking down into the empty gorge, and breathed a long sigh. “It’s official,” he breathed. “This really is a Blight.”

“It refers to the bird-lizard?” The golem, Shale, stepped away from the wall that it had nearly disappeared amongst. Its antipathy for flying creatures was evident in its tone, despite the terrible vision the dragon had presented.

“The Archdemon, yes.” The human Warden shook his head. “It’s going South, deeper into Ferelden.”

“Maybe all the way to the Korcari Wilds,” suggested Athadra. Alistair nodded. “Let’s see if we can find this sodding Paragon we’re after, and then we can go kill it.” Now that the song had left her, the Warden felt the urge to rob the life from something...or several somethings, if she were lucky.

Athadra’s luck had improved, it seemed; in no time at all their path led them to the entrance of Bownammar, where a group of tattooed dwarves were doing battle with a larger force of darkspawn. The fear and desire the Archdemon had wrought in her was forgotten once more as her sword met armour and corrupted flesh. She even gave voice to her joy, trading battle cries with the dwarves. When the last darkspawn had fallen or retreated across a great bridge which spanned the trench and led to Bownammar itself, the leader of the squad of dwarves introduced himself as Kardol, a commander of the Legion of the Dead. The man offered them a few hours’ rest and even gave Oghren some rations of his own, to keep the man from having to stomach more of the cave worms.

“Politics,” he spat, when the Warden’s troop had recovered a bit of their strength. “I owe Orzammar my life, not Prince Behlen nor Lord Harrowmont. We keep watch here for the ‘spawn, but we don’t have the numbers to restore the fortress. If you want to look for some dead smith in there, be my guest; my cohort’s staying right here, ready to kill anything you send our way.”

Athadra was eager to go; she didn’t want to wait for the Archdemon to swoop back. Despite the veritable army of darkspawn which had left the fortress, it still proved nearly impossible to penetrate. Four days of near-constant combat took them from the far end of the bridge to the last chamber of Bownammar, and by the end, no one voiced their complaints at the spells Athadra cast in her own blood. Garahel remained close and offered his own life energy when she required it. Eventually they discovered a half-mad dwarven woman who mistook them for her own fevered imagination, but her ramblings painted a bleak picture about what Branka had done in her mad rush to find the Anvil of the Void.

When the Blight-touched woman disappeared, Athadra had them make camp in one of the final defensible chambers of the fortress. She could sense more darkspawn nearby, but she managed a few more hours of sleep before she broke camp and led the way into what she thought was the Deep Roads beyond; the crazed woman had mentioned something about Branka being nearby, and yet still lost.

The Warden wanted to turn back around almost immediately. Flesh-like filth covered the walls beyond the chamber, and the stink was truly atrocious. The demented dwarf had also mentioned a Broodmother, though she couldn’t explain what that meant. When Athadra stepped around an outcropping of stone, however, she learned all too quickly.

An enormous...thing sat against the far wall of the wide cave that fronted the next section of the Deep Roads. It might have been a woman, once, but it had longsince transformed into something monstrous. Gigantic folds of flesh held it fast to the floor, nipples adorning several rows in a grotesque parody of breasts. Athadra heard dry heaving behind her; the Orlesian soothsinger proved unequal to the sight, for just a moment. The moment passed when the Broodmother bellowed a challenge at the intruders, and the Warden cut through her own disgust along with the fleshy tentacles which rose from the foul ground and walls. The nearby darkspawn rushed to their Broodmother’s defence, but the Warden’s party was equal to the task, and eventually the fiends lay still.

When the Broodmother had given its last guttering gasp, the ghastly dwarven woman appeared and repeated the poem she’d composed, which implied that the creature had been one of Branka’s companions...and that Branka herself was to blame for the transformation. The poetess fell--or jumped--into a chasm and left the group alone amongst the carnage. The Deep Roads were nearly a relief. A scant two days later, they tracked Branka down to Caridin’s final refuge.

The woman was clearly mad beyond all reason, despite Oghren’s attempts to reach her. She’d sacrificed every single dwarf she’d taken with her to find the Anvil; even now, it lay beyond a series of traps Caridin had set in place to protect it. And when her comrades had begun to balk, Branka had given the survivors over to the darkspawn, so that the women could become Broodmothers and bear innumerable children to get past Caridin’s gauntlet. How she expected the darkspawn to retrieve the Anvil intact was never made quite clear, but it was obvious that she would not return to Orzammar without it.

Athadra considered simply killing the woman, but she didn’t think that Oghren would like that at all...and she didn’t think that she could make it back to Orzammar without him. So, after a few hours’ rest, she led her merry band back into the darkspawn’s den. The nascent cooperation they’d shown to Branka did not seem to extend to the Grey Wardens, however, and so the elf and her companions had to clear the path to the first task with fire and steel. The beasts died slowly, but that was merely the start of the Wardens’ work.

Caridin’s traps took three days and nearly all of their skills to pass unmolested, and at the end of the gauntlet they met Caridin himself; he’d been turned into a golem, and revealed to them that all of the golems had come from living dwarves, just like him. The long-dead King of Orzammar had forced the casteless and criminals to feel the hammer’s blow, and eventually Caridin himself, when he balked at the king’s thirst for power. Athadra could recall that same thirst lurking in Behlen’s gaze, and she could see Branka’s supposedly noble intentions getting warped by the power that the Anvil offered...so when Branka herself emerged from the disarmed traps and demanded control of the Anvil, Athadra had to decide.

She was right that Oghren didn’t take kindly to his wife’s death, but the dwarf took the killing blow himself, and didn’t blame the Warden. For his part, Caridin forged them a truly ugly crown upon the Anvil for Athadra to give to whomever she saw fit to sit Orzammar’s throne, and he asked only that she destroy the Anvil of the Void. As she and the Sten did so, Caridin pulled Shale off to one side, and told the smaller golem about its own forging; according to the Paragon, Shale had been a female volunteer from Cadash thaig, South of Caridin’s Cross. After the pair had conversed a while and the Anvil was irreparably wrecked, Caridin bid them farewell, and went to his final rest in a river of molten rock.

After another resting period, Shale approached the Warden. “I have a request of it,” it, or rather she, said. When Athadra nodded, she continued. “Caridin mentioned Cadash thaig, my former home. I believe I would know how to get there from Caridin’s Cross; I felt some stirrings while we were there the last time, but I did not think you would divert your course.”

The Warden looked across the sloping ground at her companions. They were each of them covered in grime and blood, some nursing wounds that would take weeks to mend even with magic. It was a miracle none of them had been tainted, except her and Alistair. “I don’t know, Shale,” she said at last. “What do you hope to find?”

The golem frowned, her eyes dimming in thought. “Myself, I think. Memories of the life I might have lived before...this.” She shrugged her stone shoulders. “If it does not think it wise...”

Athadra breathed a long sigh. “I would want to know, too. But I can’t ask everyone to come. You, me, and the Sten will scout out this thaig while everyone else gets back to Orzammar.”

“I hope you do not intend to make me babysit Alistair,” Morrigan chimed in, settling close to the Warden. “I’d say he can look after himself, but we both know ‘tis not true.”

“Hey...” the taller Warden whined. “I want to come, too. I don’t think the Assembly will believe the story if it’s just me, anyway.” Leliana was quick in echoing that assessment, and Zevran cracked that he didn’t want to have to carry Oghren’s ale all by himself.

“Congratulations,” the red-bearded dwarf said in between draws from his aleskin; it never seemed to empty, causing Athadra to wonder if he had an ale rune to match the water rune she carried...it would not be above dwarven engineering, she supposed. “Sounds like we’re goin’ onna detour. H’ray. Sodding Hespith...” He hadn’t recovered from the realization that Branka and ‘the poetess’ had been lovers, before Branka’s avarice chased her wits away.

“Seems that way,” Athadra said with a shrug, offering Shale a crooked smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for this chapter's simultaneous length and brevity; while I think the Deep Roads is a fascinating part of the game, and feel that it takes much longer than the gameplay implies, I didn't want to bog my story down with too many more chapters underground. I hope you like it nonetheless.


	27. Caridin's Crown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The long slog through the Deep Roads is finally at an end. The crown which Caridin forged finds its home, and the election of the King of Orzammar is finally put to rest. Athadra manages her own concessions for all of the blood shed in acquisition of the prize, and the party finally sees daylight once more.

The darkspawn were nearly absent from Bownammar when the Wardens passed through it a second time, and Kardol seemed grudgingly impressed with their handiwork. He mentioned recovering a few unspoilt letters from the Legion before the fortress had fallen to the darkspawn, and Athadra agreed to give them to the Shaper of Memories upon her return to the Diamond Quarter.

Shale’s thaig, which she’d called Cadash, took nearly two weeks to reach. The golem’s memories crystallised before they’d retraced their steps to Caridin’s Cross, and the companions combed their way North through highways unseen by the dwarves for five Ages. The colony was lightly infested with genlocks and a few hurlocks, and one terribly powerful ogre, but Athadra’s company had gotten exceedingly efficient at dispatching the monsters. When the buildings and alleys lay silent, Shale gathered more memories, and Oghren added to a list of names of dwarven volunteers that he’d first taken from a monument in the same chamber that Caridin had bided his time for so long. Shale found her own name amongst those honoured in Cadash--indeed, she’d been Shayle of House Cadash, a confederate of Caridin. The confirmation quieted the golem, and she spent most of their journey back to Orzammar alone with her thoughts.

If the journey into the Deep Roads had been troubling, each day closer to the dwarven city-state lifted a bit of the weight that the Roads had lain on their hearts, save for the golem and the newly-widowed dwarf. Athadra felt some measure of hollowness in her veins as her feet recrossed the ground where a few darkspawn corpses still lay rotting, and she wondered if Alistair could sense the loneliness as well, but he seemed too preoccupied with his Orlesian to bother. As they all settled into another too-close camp, no more than a day’s hard marching from Orzammar, Morrigan whispered in that half-familiar language.

“Sorry,” the Warden breathed back, resting against a grimy stone. “My grandad never knew enough of the people’s tongue to teach his family.”

“Ahh,” Morrigan sighed, though she didn’t sound surprised. “We can remedy that, if it would please you.”

Athadra hesitated, sliding closer to the Wilds-witch. “I think so,” she said after a moment. “Once we’ve got some sky above us.” Morrigan nodded and offered nothing further, and Athadra reflected on the long trek underground. She slept only briefly, despite the Sten and Shale sharing the watch.

The last few miles of the Deep Roads passed like a half-remembered dream. “Maker’s breath,” exclaimed Leliana when they made it through the triple-doors that guarded the mines, and Orzammar’s great ceiling rose into the dusty heights above them. “We made it!”

The captain of the mine sentries bowed low as the Warden approached, his beard nearly brushing the ground, and he told them that they’d been gone for forty-six days, with awe in his voice. The news surprised Athadra; time in the Deep Roads seemed at once much slower and far quicker than the time she’d spent outside them. With a nod she thanked the guard and asked after their patron.

“Still in the palace, waiting to warm his arse on his father’s chair,” the guard said with slight distaste. “The other nobleman’s holed up in his own house. I hear tell the last Assembly meeting ended with bloodshed, and the two won’t stop there.”

The Warden nodded and hitched her pack higher onto her shoulder. The crown lay inside; hopefully it would be enough. “Thank you,” she said, and led her column to the Diamond Quarter. Along the way, they met a more prudent group of Harrowmont’s men, who merely jeered at them; either the sight of so many blood-soaked fighters from the Deep Roads gave them pause, or they were reserving their strength. Either way, Athadra quickened her step to the royal estate.

Behlen himself met her party in the entrance hall. He looked as though he’d gotten even less sleep than Athadra. “Where is she?” he demanded, by way of hello.

“Dead,” the Warden replied. She glanced pointedly at Oghren, who nodded.

“Did the deed m’self,” he offered. “She was crazier than a nug in a lyrium shaft.”

The prince’s face darkened dangerously. “I am sorry, my friend.” He sounded murderous for a moment, but shook his head and tried a sympathetic smile. It didn’t help.

Shale cleared her throat, or at least affected to, in her stony voice. “We did find Caridin, however. He forged a crown for the true King of Orzammar.”

Behlen seemed to relax at last, curiosity replacing agitation across his features. “How could the Paragon still live?”

“Got himself cast in steel on the Anvil,” said Athadra. “Branka attacked him, and I had to pick a side. The Anvil got damaged in the battle, but he managed to make the crown, and told me it were up to me who I gave it to.” She tilted her head, a small smirk playing over her lips. She didn’t know why she lied, precisely, but she knew she didn’t trust Behlen with the power to forge dwarves into stone and steel...and so she was glad she’d broken the Anvil after all.

Behlen’s eyes flashed with understanding, and he glanced at a pair of near guards, who stood up just a bit straighter. “The gift of a Paragon would be decisive in the Assembly, given through a Grey Warden, no less.”

Athadra nodded. “Certainly worth honouring an ancient piece of paper, at least. But who should get this great gift?” The air in the room chilled as she spoke; Vartag and another complement of guards stepped closer, and the Warden’s smirk widened.

Behlen’s lips cracked into a smirk of their own. “The rightful king, of course. One with the wisdom to repay the gift by delivering dwarven soldiers to aid in the Blight.”

“But if the gods be good, the Blight will be over before the rightful king’s reign is ended. And the Wardens will have certain other needs, before and after the Blight’s done. Needs that the rightful King of Orzammar can provide.”

“Lyrium,” the prince pronounced. The dwarves mined the metal and turned it into the runes and potions that so many on the surface used, but the trade on the surface was strictly controlled by the Chantry. “Your Maker’s disciples might not appreciate the King of Orzammar circumventing their authority.”

Athadra snorted. “He ain’t my Maker, and I won’t be reduced to begging or stealing from the bloody priests. If the future King of Orzammar is wise, he’d think long and hard about donating aid to the Warden base in Redcliffe every month or so...if he really would be king.”

Behlen gave a curt shake of his head to Vartag, and the man backed away subtly. “For how long would the true king need to make these donations?”

“Ten years,” Athadra answered. “After the Blight’s done. That would just about balance the gift of Caridin’s crown, I think.”

The prince tugged on one of his beard braids for a long moment and then nodded. “It will be done, I promise you. Now, let’s see this farce ended once and for all.” Behlen gestured to Vartag. “Rouse Bandelor and have him call the Assembly.”

Scantly an hour later, the grey-bearded steward stood amidst a mob of deshyrs and guards. Nearly all had come in arms and armour, despite Bandelor’s decree to the contrary, and the man could only shake his head wearily. “My lords and ladies, please calm yourselves. The Grey Warden has returned from her trip to the Deep Roads--”

“Her trip to the surface!” A young woman heckled, slamming a staff to the ground. The call bred grumbles of skepticism amongst nearly half of the throng.

“My lady, please. I have sworn testimony from Captain Ragnar that the Warden and her friends crossed the Mining Gate more than a month ago, and have only just returned.” The warrior had no family ties to either Behlen or Harrowmont, and so could be seen as a neutral party. That quieted a few objections.

Athadra finally saw Harrowmont himself, his dark hair mixed with salt. “If the Warden has news worthy of summoning us at this late hour, I would hear it from her own lips,” he said. From the other side of the chamber, Behlen ceased his own hew and cry in Athadra’s defence, and suddenly every pair of dwarven eyes fell upon the Warden. Shale, Oghren, and the Sten closed ranks beside her, and she was grateful for them and for the weight of Ageless at her back. Alistair and the others were near the Commons, ready to return to the surface without them, if need be.

“Aye,” Athadra responded. “I did walk the Deep Roads, and I didn’t do it alone. I had a dwarf of Orzammar with me, a warrior of great bravery.” She paused for a long moment, before kneeing Oghren in the hip.

“Oh,” the red-bearded dwarf grunted. “Aye, we went to the Dead Trenches and beyond,” he said, using the nobles’ name for Bownammar since it had been lost. “We found Branka and Caridin himself, and we’ve brought back a sodding crown struck on the Anvil of the Void, no less.” With a flourish, Oghren pulled the monstrosity from a satchel and held it high, so that its gold and copper glinted in the chamber’s runelight.

Steward Bandelor cleared his throat. “And who was to be the recipient of this crown?” He took it from his fellow dwarf carefully, holding it with reverence.

“The rightful King of Orzammar,” Athadra intoned. Her crimson gaze slid from her patron to his accuser and back again. “Behlen Aeducan.”

The hush that had fallen over the assembled deshyrs erupted into pandemonium. It seemed that everyone shouted, and the stink of blood wafted in the hall as a minor skirmish broke out between Harrowmont’s men and the guard. Athadra’s voice was lost in the din, and so she gathered her magic and actually unleashed a wintry storm in the confined space. Order was restored, though more than a few beards had been licked with hoarfrost by the time the blizzard came to an end.

Lord Harrowmont crossed to the centre of the chamber and cast down his mace. “I cannot defy the will of a Paragon.” He breathed a sigh, and shot Athadra a despairing look. “I hereby acknowledge Prince Behlen as my rightful king.” He knelt and bowed his head, and slowly the other nobles took to his example, until Behlen, Oghren and Bandelor were the only dwarves still standing.

Behlen looked grimly satisfied. “Then this farce is finally ended. Rise, so we can do this properly.” When the deshyrs had regained their feet, Behlen approached the steward and knelt, himself. “I swear to preserve the Memories, honour the Ancestors, and bring glory to my people for as long as I yet live,” he promised. Bandelor nodded and lowered the awkward crown onto Behlen’s head; it fit, if a bit loosely.

“All hail the first amongst the lords of the houses,” Steward Bandelor called. “The King of Orzammar.” As Behlen rose, the younger members of the Assembly took their staffs and pounded a low rhythm into the floor. A great upwelling of relief broke over the gathered dwarves, friend and foe alike.

“As my first act as king,” Behlen announced, “I declare a Proving to be held in the Grey Warden’s honour!” He let the proclamation run through the crowd for a few moments. “And as my second,” he continued, “I demand the usurper’s execution. Guards! Seize him!”

Athadra tensed; she fully expected Harrowmont’s supporters to begin an insurrection, here and now, but their spirit was broken. Lord Harrowmont did not struggle against his captors, but only shook his head bitterly as he was led away.

“You’ve had a long journey, Warden,” Behlen said to her once his enemy was gone. “You should return to your rooms and clean up. You’ll have a whole week to relax.”

And so, near delirious with exhaustion, Athadra managed to stumble back to her borrowed room at the royal estate. She barely had the energy to climb out of her filthy armour and onto the bed before sleep snatched her away.


	28. The Turning of the Tide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athadra and her cohort emerge into the open air once more, their number increased by one. Levi the trader reminds the Warden of a promise made, the fulfillment of which must delay the closing of another, and so the group strikes out for the Coastlands on foot. In the meantime, Athadra and Morrigan come to share even more between them, and Oghren helps make an interesting discovery on the road.

An Honour Proving was something like a Glory Proving, a tournament of Warrior and Noble Caste fighters, though Athadra’s contest was held over a dwarven week. Only a Grand Proving lasted longer. The occasion allowed her seven days of rest, and six nights with Morrigan on their proper bed. She watched the sport during the day, and King Behlen joined her every second day; he took even more pleasure in the clash of steel and flesh than she did, but his fresh crown didn’t seem to grant him any more sleep. The Warden did not care to learn what kept him up nights, though she could guess. The late Lord Harrowmont still had many friends and allies, and likely family members as well.

Athadra’s heart pounded as she passed through the Hall of Heroes, so-called because it contained the statues of nearly every dwarven Paragon recorded by the Memories. Oghren stumbled as they passed a beardless statue, and the Warden could tell it had been carved in Branka’s image. “Do you want to take a minute?”

“Me?” Oghren said with a start, and then shook his head. “No, it’s already done.”

Athadra shrugged and kept walking, sidling closer to Morrigan when her party filled the lifting shaft. “Hard to believe we’re finally on our way out,” she breathed, somewhat wistfully.

“Indeed,” the Wilds-witch agreed. “It has been interesting, I shall give it that.”

The floor beneath their feet shifted only a little, and the walls to each side appeared to descend around them, light flickering from sun-runes in evenly-spaced hollows. A good few minutes later the floor’s movement stopped, and the enormous gates opened on the cold mountain air. The mountain at their back cast a long shadow, and the Eastern sky before them was mottled with the first pinpricks of starlight. The guard saluted Athadra and her companions as they descended the stone steps.

Oghren hesitated again, just before stepping out onto the ground. “Just...gimme a minute,” he protested, steadying himself and blinking blearily up into the evening air. “All that sky, just up there.” He hiccuped and took a generous swig from his hip flask. Like any proper dwarf of Orzammar, he’d never been ‘topside’ before.

“Take all the time you need,” Athadra assured him. “We might even want to make camp nearby, unless anyone wants to march down the Frostbacks at night.”

The dwarf sucked in a breath and offered his thanks. Slowly, he eased a foot onto the bare ground, and with some trepidation he let go of the stone railing. Athadra pre-emptively trod on Alistair’s foot before the taller Warden could comment. “Well, colour me a nug-wrangler,” Oghren exclaimed, finally looking up. “It’s...beautiful, ain’t it?”

Shale joined him in stargazing. “It gets even better at full dark, but the sun will blind your fleshy eyes if you are not careful during the day.” Oghren nodded.

“Let’s find a place away from the commotion of the plaza to bed down,” Athadra suggested, and she led the charge down the sloping hill. Snow had marched down the mountainside during their stay underground, so she and Morrigan would have to help clear an area and start a fire. She hadn’t found a suitable location, however, when a familiar face appeared from nowhere.

“I was just about to give up on findin’ you all again,” exclaimed Levi Dryden, with a grin. “When you didn’t get back to Redcliffe after a week, I came lookin’ for you here. Good Arl Eamon told me that’s where you’d be.”

Athadra raised a brow. “Aye?”

Levi nodded. “Right. I understand about wantin’ to go to ground--a bit literally, I see--but them dwarves at the gate didn’t want to let nobody through, so I waited.”

“Why’d you come all the way out here, Levi?”

The trader paused and chewed his lip. “I don’t want to be a bother, or nothin’,” he said after a moment. “But it’s just...Soldier’s Peak ain’t gettin’ no closer. It’d be a good place to hide, too, damn near impossible for Loghain to find.” He smiled again, worry touching the edges of his expression.

Athadra took a breath, and remembered her words. She said she’d consider finding the old Warden fortress, back when Lothering was more than a smokey, Blighted hole in the bannorn. So much had happened since then, above ground and below, that the Warden hadn’t given the proposition much thought. But she considered it now; she remembered the excitement she felt in the Deep Roads, the thrill of seeing the darkspawn fall before her, the whisper of her own blood as she made the beasts’ boil in their veins. “Alright,” she finally said. “I’ll look for this Soldier’s Peak with you, and when it’s clean of squatters and spirits, your family can make it livable. But if we come across any templars on the way there, you’d best pray they see sense and leave us be.”

“Make bless you, Warden,” Levi said. “You won’t regret it, I promise.”

Athadra suppressed a sneer at the blessing, merely shrugging her shoulders. “You know where we can set camp for the night?” It turned out that he did, in a decent-sized clearing in the woods off the plaza. Surface dwarves were still hawking their goods at the impromptu market that Orzammar’s closure had brought into being. It didn’t take too much work to clear the snow and brush from the ground near Levi’s tent, and their stakes were sturdy enough to dig into the hard-packed ground.

The Warden cocked her head at Morrigan when the witch sought out an isolated corner, as seemed her custom on the road. When the human mage noticed her audience, a small smirk tickled at the edge of her lips, and she gestured. Athadra wasted little time in closing the distance between them. They built their smaller fire without breaking their casual silence, and after Athadra helped Morrigan erect her tent, there was no question about the Warden bothering with her own.

“Were you serious about learning the elven language, when last we spoke of it?” Morrigan’s eyes glowed strangely in the firelight, and for an instant, Athadra thought her pupils had lengthened into slits.

The Warden blinked, and the vision was gone. “Aye,” she confirmed. “I gathered what scraps I could in the Circle Tower, but they were pitifully few. Not much more than ‘Andaran atish’an’, really.”

Morrigan breathed a low cackle. “I do not see that greeting suiting you, Athadra.” When the elf raised an eyebrow, the Wilds-witch looked back into the fire. “It is a welcoming, as you likely know, but also a warning. It roughly means ‘I dwell in this peaceful place’, and implies that your guest should keep it peaceful.”

The Warden shook her head. “I doubt I’ll know a week of peace for the rest of my life.” She joined her companion’s gaze, looking deeply into the frolicking flames. “How did you come to learn it?”

“‘Twas my mother, of course,” Morrigan replied. “She instructed me in the seven principal tongues of Thedas: the King’s Tongue, shared by the dwarves of Orzammar, and the men of Ferelden and the Free Marches; Orlesian; Andish; Rivaini; Antivan; Nevarran; and Arcanum, so that I might pass through any land I choose unmolested. But I also learned tongues not spoken in Thedas for a thousand years, if ever, and among these is Elvish.”

Athadra knew better than to ask what other exotic tongues might be counted in Morrigan’s repertoire, but she couldn’t help but be fascinated and impressed by the breadth of the boast. “I could test you in Orlesian and Andish, and possibly Tevene, if you know it.” The ancient language of the Tevinters had fragmented into Orlesian, Nevarran, and Antivan over the eons, but it was closest to the modern Tevinter tongue, Arcanum.

“Sadly, she did not, though I do not know why. I’m certain she can speak it.” Morrigan’s face softened as she glanced at her companion. “A trade, then. I shall give you Elvish lessons, and you shall pay me in kind with Tevene. When shall we begin?”

“Tonight,” the elven mage replied at once. “If you’re of a mind.”

Morrigan was, and soon enough the moon crested above to the sound of strange whispers passing between them. The Wilds-witch could nearly always guess what a Tevene word meant from the Arcanum or one of its relatives, and the grammar was surprisingly similar to Elvish. That helped Athadra in her own study, though she had more difficulty with some of the sounds. By the time they retired for the night, the pair could hold simple greeting-and-parting conversations in each of their chosen tongues.

The next morning, Levi was more than happy to have his ass-led cart weighed down with the loot and sundry gear that Shale had carried for them from Orzammar, along with their packs. The ass made slow going down the wide mountain trail which connected the dwarven city to the Imperial Highway, but by the time the sun peaked, they’d rejoined the flat road and could make good time. Morrigan named the clouds and the trees, the birds and the breezes in whispered Elvish, which Athadra absorbed like moss soaking up water.

Near midafternoon the party reached the fork in the Imperial Highway; both paths hugged the coast of Lake Calenhad all the way round. The South fork led down to Redcliffe, while the Northern road would take them perilously close to Kinloch Hold, which was the final way-station to the Circle Tower. Everyone looked at Athadra with expectation, leaving the entire enterprise up to her yet again, and she seriously considered her options.

The biggest part of her wanted to take her loot to Redcliffe and restock; a month and a half surviving off of Deep Mushrooms and the tasteless paste then-Prince Behlen had granted them had given her a renewed appreciation for Alistair’s stews, but she could do with some decent food from the city she aspired to call ‘home’. And yet the snows were already crawling down from the Frostbacks and up from the Wilds, and a week spent going South and another two through the bannorn would likely see frost upon the Waking Sea itself.

“North,” she said at last, and had to gesture to stop Levi from falling prostrate in thanks. He was smart enough to figure out that if they didn’t try now, they weren’t likely to try for the winter. “Once we’ve got your family in Soldier’s Peak, we’ll head South again.” Her eyes fell upon the Sten and she nodded, silently affirming the promise she’d made to find his missing sword. The Qunari returned the gesture.

It wasn’t long after the company had started along the Northern fork that Oghren pointed into a nearby copse of trees. “Smells like home sweet home,” he gruffed, sniffing the air several times. As Athadra looked, she could see a spiral of smoke curling from behind the trees, and after a moment even she could smell the whiff of sulfur and something more subtle--almost akin to lyrium.

Curiosity got the better of caution; with all of the steel that her companions carried, Athadra thought they could cut through any band of thieves the woods could hide, and she wanted to get off the Highway before they drew too near to Kinloch Hold in any case. “Let’s see what smells like Orzammar, then,” she suggested. Soon after they’d edged off the Highway and doubled back through the woods. No raiders waited to ambush them; instead a treetrunk lay shattered and smouldering beside a large crater which still steamed.

“What in the Maker’s name...” Alistair wondered aloud as he looked into the hole in the earth.

“Starfall,” Athadra answered at once. Her crimson eyes widened as they lit upon the rock in the bottom of the crater. “And the star’s still intact!” A hushed wonder fell over the party, even Shale, as they gathered along the lip of the crater.

“Should we try and claim it?” The Antivan finally broke the silence, avarice mixing with awe in his voice.

“Wouldn’t touch it if I were you, tree-boy,” Oghren cut in. “You can smell the lyrium comin’ off it. Probly other metals too--ain’t no tellin’.”

Levi spoke up. “I bet my brother, Mikhael, can make somethin’ useful out of it. He ain’t ever seen no ore he couldn’t turn to a purpose.”

Athadra looked at the rock once more, and felt something in her blood whisper at the sight of the off-green veins it showed--so similar to the lyrium deep beneath their feet, but subtly different, too. “It’s worth a shot. I’ll take that as payment for finding this fortress, then.” She looked over her shoulder. “Shale, if you like, you can get it for us and load it onto the cart. Oghren can help, if he wants.”

The golem considered the request, and somehow didn’t find it too demeaning. “Very well,” she said. “The dwarf can stay...it doesn’t want to get its hands dirty.” A cackle accompanied Oghren’s spluttering curses. Nevertheless, the space-stone was hefted onto Levi’s cart, and covered with Athadra’s own tent to keep it from travelers’ eyes.

They made poorer time off the Highway, but ran into nobody as their path slowly curved East. When at last they bedded down in a clearing, Athadra enjoyed her watch with the Sten in silence, looking at the blanket of stars and reflecting upon the fallen star in their midst. She was grateful to be out of the Deep Roads, but she knew that the Deep Roads would never really leave her; the darkspawn seethed and teemed deep below, and boiled over onto the surface down South. She’d seen the ruins of the dwarven thaigs, the ichor coating the once-proud passageways, and she knew that her companions were all that stood between those monsters and all of Ferelden...perhaps all of Thedas. There could be no turning from her course, now; she would meet the Archdemon, sooner or later, and at least one of them would not survive the meeting. Until then, she would do whatever was necessary...just as Duncan had done.


	29. The Griffons' Keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wardens head to Soldier's Peak, the keep where Levi hopes to reclaim his family's lost glory. Shadows of the past cling to the place, and it must be cleansed of the violence and forbidden magics which have stained it before the Wardens can truly make it their own once again.

It took the Wardens and their companions a full week to pick their way over the Coastlands under Levi’s guidance. They’d rejoined the Imperial Highway only briefly, near Kinloch Hold, in order to ford the broad Kemper River which drained Lake Calenhad into the Waking Sea. Travelers on the road told them of the skirmishes in the bannorn, of fields which lay fallow or pregnant because the strongmen had started calling their peasants to arms. After thirty years of peace, Ferelden looked to once again broach the subject of war.

Of darkspawn there was hardly a sign between the hamlet of West Hill and the fortified capital-town of Highever, though Athadra’s band avoided both centres--she didn’t want to waste her strength on the arms of Teyrn Cousland, if indeed he would seek Loghain’s favour by subduing the remaining Grey Wardens. Levi led them through the Northern country well out of sight of the Imperial Highway or the major unpaved roads. The dearth of news from the South did not perturb the Warden; she could well imagine the mindless rapine which the darkspawn would have continued to visit upon the Hinterlands and the Southron Hills during her stay beneath ground.

Instead, she focused on keeping her skills as sharp as her sword, passing her evenings in combat with the Sten and much of her marching time trading tongues with Morrigan. It seemed like hardly any time at all until Levi pointed toward the mouth of a large cave.

“A’right,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “I figger it’s just through here. I tried t’ pick me way through a time ‘r two, but I’m...scared o’ the dark.” He grinned apologetically.

“Hang on a tick,” Alistair broke in. “You mean you’ve never seen the place we’re going before?” A brow arched up, and when Levi shook his head, the tall Warden guffawed. “Then how do you know it even exists?”

Athadra almost felt like agreeing, but couldn’t keep a smirk from lighting on her face. “Anyone could say the same about your Maker too, you know.”

“Hey...” the not-quite-templar started to protest.

“Never mind,” Athadra said. She thought to ask how Levi came to be so sure about the Peak’s location, but she bit the question back. “We’ve all spent enough time in the dark to last us the rest of our lives, but it looks like we’ve got to go to ground again. Did anyone manage to filch one of those lit runes we used in the Deep Roads?”

The Antivan elf cleared his throat and cast a glance about at no one in particular. “If I had, might I get a kiss in return?”

“I’m sure Shale could give you that hug you’ve been after,” Athadra suggested, still smirking. That took the flirt right out of Zevran’s expression and instead he produced two of the stones.

“Normally I need no help seeing in the dark,” he pointed out, “why don’t you just keep these, dear leader?”

“Give one to Levi and the other to Alistair. Between them and Shale, we should have just enough light to see by...presuming the cave is passable at all.”

“I think it is, Warden,” Levi pleaded. “It shouldn’t be too far through, neither.”

Athadra nodded and gripped Ageless’ hilt. “Right. We’ll split into two groups, with Levi and his cart between us. Zevran and Leliana are with me and Morrigan.” Garahel barked indignantly, causing the Warden to roll her eyes. “And my mabari, of course. The Sten will take point at the rear.” Alistair looked to reject his own placement, but Leliana had a soothing gesture for him, and Athadra recognized a warmth in it that gave her pause. She was unsure whether to encourage that connection or not, and so she decided to ignore it for the nonce. “Very well,” she said, looking to her picked team. “Allons-y.”

The assassin and the bard fell in beside her and Morrigan, and the Wilds-witch ignited an orb of power at the end of her gnarled stave that lit the way well enough for human, elf, and canine alike. The cavern proved wide enough for the cart and the golem to pass, but only just, and a few twists and turns nearly vexed Levi’s ass. The three lights cast long-dead torch brackets into relief, as well as the occasional gate frame and the scarred rock which suggested the gates had been violently rent asunder.

The winding cavern had a few side-passages which opened up to broader chambers, where the detritus of an ancient garrison was in evidence--mouldered wooden frames for beds and piles of splinters where tables and chests might have been. Water could be heard trickling in the distance, echoed half a hundred times and threatening to disorient the explorers more than once. After more than an hour in the tunnel, Athadra finally spied a gloaming ahead, and a few moments later she broke through to the fresher air of the coastal hills. She still kept her weapon ready and made sure Levi wasn’t too far behind.

The mist was thick in the valley that fed into the cavern, and untrod snow lay in shin-high drifts along the sharp incline, but up in the distance they all could see the imposing figure of an abandoned fortress through the clouds. Its gate lay smashed open, but the walls were still thick, and twin spires rested high above them. The air had an odd, live quality to it, and Athadra shared a glance with Morrigan.

“You feel it as well?” asked the Wilds-witch in Elvish.

Athadra nodded. “Aye,” she replied in kind. “The Veil’s thin, here.”

Behind them, Levi could hardly contain his excitement. "I knew it was here!" He seemed to forget himself, dropping his reins and running toward the ruined portcullis. Athadra caught him as he sought to pass her by.

"You mad?" She half-suggested, gripping his shoulders. The man looked to argue, but a moment's consideration saw him deflated. "Tread carefully, Levi. And always in our midst, unless you'd like to take up a sword?"

"N-no, Warden. Forgive me." He offered her a self-conscious smile.

"Good. Now stay close behind, and try not to get in the way. There might be spirits afoot." Athadra's face held no note of levity, which made Levi's smile evaporate. He swallowed with difficulty and nodded, falling back to his position between the front and rear squads. The Warden took stock of the incline and readied Ageless; when she stepped toward the silent stone, she did so at a deliberate pace.

The Fade was close, just beyond sight, and it drew closer with every yard they crossed. Once the Sten had stepped through the hole rent in the iron of the gate, the magical distance disappeared, and a vision of the past intruded upon their minds. An army lay siege to the Peak, fighting at the behest of some long-dead Fereldan king. When the scene ended and the Warden's troop returned to the present, the Fade came with them, in the form of living skeletons which the snowdrifts had buried.

The bone-men’s weapons were pitted with rust, but still dangerous in their taloned hands; Wardens and king’s men alike rose to rejoin the battle that history had forgotten, and each viewed the living interlopers as enemy reinforcements. The fiends had no blood to boil and seemed impervious to heat and cold alike, and so they had to be hacked to pieces by brute force. Luckily for the Wardens, the years and the weather had not been kind to the bones, and they shattered under steel without excruciating effort.

Levi looked like he’d tried to hide beneath his ass and had been kicked for the trouble once the battle had ended. “Did you see that? What went on before the...things...came up off the ground?”

“A vision, aye,” Athadra confirmed. “It were imprinted on the ground. Lots of people died here all at once, likely with magic involved, so the Veil is thin.”

“Veil?” Levi quirked his head. Athadra sighed and shook hers.

“Tie off the beast and stay close, unless you want to stay out here.” The trader hesitated for a moment, but then steeled his resolve with a nod. “Good,” the Warden said, and she took stock of her companions. “Shale, stay here and guard the cart--the rafters of the castle may not hold your weight.” The golem sighed and meted out a caustic remark, but did not truly protest. “We may yet have further visions in this place; there might even be demons. If you do not think you can face them, you are welcome to stay as well.” Athadra’s stomach tensed with nerves, but none of the others elected to remain outside.

With a nod, Athadra again readied her blade and mounted the stairs. The thick, wooden door stood ajar, hinges rusted half-off. In the foyer, another scene intruded upon their thoughts, of Levi’s ancestor, Sophia Dryden, rallying the beleaguered Wardens in the midst of the siege. Luckily this time there were no vengeful skeletons to redispatch once the vision had concluded. The Wardens went room by neglected room, cutting down the risen Wardens or their conquerors whenever the corpses stirred, until they reached the main room of the castle’s second floor. Here, they learned the source of the Veil’s weakness--Sophia’s lieutenant Avernus, dabbling in demonology to help fend off the king’s men. The demons came, but could not be controlled, and so Warden and soldier alike were rent asunder by the otherworldly monsters.

Not long after, Athadra found that at least one of the demons from that long-gone assault had remained, in the rotting body of Sophia Dryden herself. Levi demanded answers, of course, and the demon promised them in exchange for the Wardens’ assistance in escaping.

“That’s not going to happen,” Athadra retorted, sharing a knowing look with Morrigan. She’d taken a demon’s deal once; the exchange did not make her eager to repeat it.

“But--” Levi started to protest.

“No buts, Levi. That thing isn’t your great-grandmother anymore, and it weren’t so for a long time.”

The demon cackled and sought to take Athadra by surprise, but a shaft from Leliana’s bow stymied the attack in time for the Warden to parry. The Fade-creature did not summon underlings to its cause,  whether from surprise or inability, and so it could not stand long against Athadra’s counterattack.  Once Sophia’s corpse was truly inanimate, Athadra did her best to blast the ichor from her own skin and turned from the body.

“It mentioned a mage,” she wondered aloud. “Keeping it trapped here. Could it have meant...”

“That cheery demon-summoning blood mage?” Alistair cut in. “I doubt it. He’d be over two hundred years old by now, if that’s even possible.”

Athadra shrugged. “There’s another tower out past the corridor, I think. If there is a mage, they’ll be there.” At her nod, the others fell in behind, and they made short work of another crop of skeletons standing guard at the frosted parapets. In the tower beyond they found an antechamber with a worktable, which held a large jug and a journal detailing the mad experiments of the mage that once resided there. It took only a few cursory glances at the tightly-clipped notes, written in formal Ancient Tevene, to convince Athadra that Avernus was a brilliant alchemist. Notes on free parchment lay beside the jug, which caught her attention. “Interesting...”

Her fellow Warden coughed. “When she says ‘interesting’, I start getting these odd pains in my stomach...” Alistair looked over her shoulder at the pot and the instructions he couldn’t read. “That’s not what I think it is, right?”

“Depends on what you think it is, templar,” Athadra shot back. “Which is?”

Alistair stammered. “I...don’t know. Some kind of elixir?”

“You might say that,” she allowed. “It’s tainted blood,” she continued, bluntly. “Supposedly enhanced to bring out a different aspect of the taint than the Joining alone. Would you like some?”

A series of expressions passed over Alistair’s face, from interest to revulsion, and he merely shook his head. “But you’re going to drink it, aren’t you?”

She couldn’t tell if his comment stood as a compliment to her courage or a testament to her madness. Avernus’ work held the promise of strengthening her blood without shortening the time that her body would resist the corrosive effects of the taint. Before the Deep Roads, she would not have dreamed of taking that risk; Duncan’s urgent tones sounded in her ears, encouraging her to take any means necessary.  After a heartbeat’s pause, she nodded. “Aye. If it’ll help us chase the blighters back to where they came from, I’ll drink the lot. You sure you don’t want some?”

Alistair hesitated yet again, frowning. “I think I’ll pass, all the same.” Athadra met his frown with a shrug, and cast a glance in Morrigan’s direction.

“You’re sure?” The Wilds-witch probed in Tevene.

“Indeed,” the Warden answered. A breath calmed her fluttering heart and she uncorked the flagon; she turned the jar up and swallowed three times before the pain lit up her blood. The room tipped about her, clay smashing on the floor as she steadied herself against the table, but beneath the fire in her veins she felt a deep current of power. When she straightened, her crimson eyes shone with an understanding that she couldn’t form into words, and her ears twitched with the subtle pulse of magic around them. She hadn’t felt the threads before, her arcane senses too overwhelmed by the Veil’s paucity.

“Avernus lives,” Athadra pronounced, looking at the ceiling above them, and thinking of the rooms beyond.

“How you figure?” Levi wondered.

“I got no idea,” the Warden answered. “But I mean to find out.”

 

 


	30. Stitches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athadra and Alistair discover that they aren't the only two Wardens remaining in Ferelden. The mage, Avernus, indeed still lives in his tower--and he manages to heal the Veil that he himself had rent so long ago.

“ _I hear you_ ,” came a wheezing voice from across the large laboratory. “ _Take care not to distract_.” He stood bent over a table, facing away from Athadra’s company, and spoke in Ancient Tevene. The Wardens’ party spread out as she and Morrigan had told them to do, lest the old man try to attack them all at once with a ranged spell.

“ _The demon is gone_ ,” Athadra replied in the same tongue. That got the alchemist’s attention, and he swept around, casting his clear eyes at the warriors confronting him.

“ _Ah, yes_ ,” he muttered when his gaze settled on Athadra. “ _Funny the little one leads, but I took lesson early on not to underestimate ambitious women_.” He still seemed distracted, despite the news. “ _Did it convince you to see me past the Veil, as well_?”

Athadra saw Morrigan’s brow draw down, though the elf suspected that she couldn’t yet follow the exchange. No one else seemed to comprehend either, but Zevran and Leliana’s professions had taught them to surreptitiously gather information, so the Warden couldn’t be certain. Alistair’s befuddled expression was genuine enough, at least. “ _It made attempt. I simply did not believe that you yet lived_.”

A grin tugged at the corner of Avernus’ lips. “ _There is power in the blood, especially the tainted blood which we share with the darkspawn. I see you sampled that power yourself_.” He leaned more heavily on his stave and muttered an incantation under his breath, but his attention returned after a moment. “ _Apologies--the balance in the Keep is delicate, and your efforts strain it._ ”

The Warden nodded, relaxing a bit when it became clear that the incantation wasn’t a surprise attack. “ _Give no voice to your methods of research, once you and the surviving Wardens found home in this tower_ ,” she warned, glancing in Alistair’s direction.

Avernus considered her words without looking at the larger Warden. “ _Advice gratefully received. He holds ideals high for the Wardens_?” When Athadra nodded, the old mage suppressed a chuckle. “ _He would have hated Sophia_.” He shook his head. “ _Gratitude for your arrival, in any case. I doubt I could have lived another twelveyear on the blood alone. It can only last for so long, absent more research_.”

“ _Aye_ ,” Athadra replied. “ _We can broach subject once the Veil has been strengthened_.”

“Then we should get to it,” Avernus answered in the King’s Tongue, slowly, as though it had been a long time since he’d even formed thoughts in that language. “Shall we go?”

The Warden nodded, and Avernus ambled from his elevated workstation to lead the company back down the tower, the way it had come. He passed over the skeletons on the causeway without comment, pausing only once in the main body of the Keep to regard the ruined body of his former Warden Commander. “She was the best of us,” he said with a sigh.

“She turned the Wardens into her private army, to revenge herself on the king,” Alistair pointed out. Scattered notes and the occasional flashbacks told the story of Sophia Dryden’s grand rebellion, and had not painted the former Commander of the Grey in the best light. Mention of that drew a measured look from Avernus, but he did not reply.

The exchange drew Levi’s attention, whose nerve seemed to have fled him at the final stilling of his many-greats-grandmother’s limbs. “You knew her well?”

“About as well as anyone could, once she became a Warden. But we’ve little time to reminisce; perhaps once our work is done.” The trader frowned, but nodded and sank back. Avernus guided them back to the second floor’s great hall, where he’d first drawn the runes in his own blood, nearly two centuries before. “In the heat of the battle, I sundered the Veil in a particular way; it would have been fascinating, had I not been fighting for my life.”

“Can it not be mended?” It was Morrigan who spoke, curiosity mixed with an odd respect in her expression.

“It can,” said Avernus. “But not without effort, nor risk. Imagine a thick blanket split down the middle and wrapped in on itself, so that the ends are the same, but partway down the faces are inverted. This tear is something like that--we are standing as much in the Fade as in Thedas, now.”

“Is that why the visions have infected the very air?” Athadra asked.

“Indeed,” the old wizard answered. “The chaos and death of the siege left their mark here and in the Fade, and that imprint echoes when the wound is agitated. Sealing it involves unwinding the Veil and patching it over...and that requires temporarily tearing it wider, further overlaying the realms.” He gestured to a mirror which lay beyond the runes. “Demons will cross the tear to try and keep it open. The mirror will attract them as a means of passing between realms, so you can focus there while I unweave the acrane threads.” The man took a few deep breaths and closed his eyes, gathering his strength. “Are you ready?”

Athadra nodded to Alistair and the others. “Take positions around the mirror. Kill anything that comes across.” The Warden’s companions readied their weapons, and the elf turned to Avernus. “Do you need our help?” Morrigan stood at her side, knotted stave in hand.

Avernus looked at them with clear, blue eyes, set deep in weathered sockets. “Keep me alive. My blood must power the ritual, but I do not have the strength I once did.”

Athadra paused a moment, considering. _“Draw the balance from my hound and my veins. If either of us falls, so shall you_.” She looked to the mabari. “Stay close to him. Keep him safe, and let him work his magic.” The hound sat and rumbled solemnly, and the Warden spared a smile for him.

The elder mage inclined his head in understanding. “We begin.” His eyes closed once more, and he brought his palm up against a small spike embedded in his stave, which cut deeply enough to draw blood. Athadra’s focus soon turned from Avernus’ incantations to the roiling air and magic about the far looking glass. The old man’s warning proved apt, for a series of demons sought to take advantage of the Veil’s weakness and enter the world as corporeal beings in their own right. Creatures of rage and sloth, of envy, and of desire pressed from the Fade.

It was sheer luck that no Pride Demons looked to pass through the Veil in that place. As it was, Athadra had to draw closer to Avernus, to keep demons and Shades from killing the man before his task was complete. His other concern proved warranted as well, and for the first time, Athadra felt her lifeblood rise in service to another’s will. She offered little resistance, yet her veins crawled in protest, and even as she struck down her foes she recalled stories of Tevinter magisters powering their spells with the blood of slaves. She gained a glimmer of sympathy for the objections to blood magic--not enough to halt her practice of the art, even in this battle, but she would have to think on it when Ageless rested in its straps once more.

A powerful Rage Demon was the last to face them, a veritable worm of magma, form maintained from sheer fury. Morrigan’s stave set frost over the beast, and Ageless bit chilled rock from it while Alistair assaulted the demon with his shield. After two rounds of thawing and re-freezing, the Rage Demon stilled and faded from the mortal realm, and the Wardens’ companions settled their own skirmishes favourably. When no more came to challenge them, Athadra turned to Avernus.

The man stood hunched low over the last blood-rune, blood dripping from his hand and arm. Garahel panted heavily beside him, still at attention for any threat; she was proud that he hadn’t bridled at his own task. “It is done,” Avernus breathed, his face ashen. “The Veil will never truly be strong, but...it stands...mended.” He lowered himself to the floor, and Athadra rushed to his side. A bit of water helped to steady him, but he would need a great deal of rest.

She surveyed the room. “Alistair, you, Zevran, and Leliana should fetch Shale and bring up some food and bedding for us. We’ll stay the night here, out of the snow.” She wasn’t entirely convinced the castle was free of enemies, but neither would the grounds be, and she didn’t trust Loghain’s men to ignore the woodlands beyond. He may well have had eyes fixed on her since Ostagar, and might seek to manoeuvre men into position, to re-enact Sophia Dryden’s fall. If that was true, she’d have all of her companions in the most defensible part of the Keep.

The castle’s beams proved worthy of a golem’s weight, and Shale returned with the taller Warden and the two rogues, each carrying ample supplies. Athadra judged a fire safe enough, despite the risk of siege she’d considered; either Loghain knew of her presence in this lost castle or he didn’t, and a bit of smoke would not tip the balance. They used some of the dry-rotted furniture as fuel, and supped on hardbread, cheese, and more of that bland paste Behlen had given them for traveling through the Deep Roads.

Avernus ate lying supine beneath a blanket. Athadra closed his wounds, but she made it clear that her previous offer to augment his strength had ended with the restoration of the Veil, and she left him with Levi to reminisce about Sophia Dryden. Instead she sought out Alistair, and pulled him away from the fireplace and the company of the two assassins.

“What do you need?” Alistair asked after a lingering glance over his shoulder.

“You realize that we’re the first Wardens to spend the night here since the Storm Age?”

The taller Warden’s face smoothed as he considered. “Yes. It’s strange, isn’t it?” He looked around at the old stone and cracked wood. “Could use a bit of cleaning up, if you ask me.”

“Aye,” Athadra concurred. “And like Avernus said, it’ll always be closer to the Fade than most people would like.”

“Though I take it you and the blood mage don’t mind it at all,” Alistair said with a bark.

The shorter Warden elbowed him. “I’m a blood mage, too,” she reminded him. “And he’s still a Grey Warden, just like you and I. You’re going to have to accept that some things are worse than blood magic.” Alistair’s mouth opened to protest, but a spasm twitched across his face, and Athadra could hear Duncan’s words to Knight-Commander Greagoir echoing in her memory. “We’re not having that debate again, Alistair. We’re Wardens.”

“So you’ve finally decided to stop running for your life?”

Athadra took a breath and let it out slowly. “You haven’t exactly given me much choice. But yes. If we can live through the civil war, and the Blight, I’ll be the sodding Warden Commander, like Sophia Dryden before me.”

“Maker forbid you turn out like she did, though. Took two hundred years for the Wardens to come back to Ferelden.”

“Well, if we live through all of that, you’ll be King of Ferelden instead of this Arland fellow. As long as you don’t give me a reason to depose you, we should be good.”

Alistair shook his head. “Don’t remind me. I was hoping that conversation with Arl Eamon was something I’d dreamed up in the Deep Roads.”

“No such luck,” Athadra said. “We both need to start thinking about what we’re going to do.” She looked around the common room, from the stairs which led down to the library and barracks areas to the doorway beyond which Sophia’s corpse still lay in repose. “I would see this hall alive again, with dozens of Wardens to call it home. You could help with that, if you were of a mind.”

“You know I would. But I can’t even imagine what the spring may hold, much less being king. If the rumours are true, Ferelden will have few fighting men and women and fewer coins to spare even without the Blight to drain both. I do like the idea of the Wardens having a strong base, but there isn’t any farmland closeby, so this place will never be self-sufficient.”

Athadra’s mouth nearly fell open. “Are you well, Alistair?”

The other Warden’s brow crooked up. “I...think so?” His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Because it sounds like you’re actually thinking about something more complicated than cheese or stroking your sword,” Athadra pointed out, and she barked a laugh when he punched her shoulder. “You’ll make a king of yourself yet. I suppose I shouldn’t get too far ahead of meself. We’ll talk about this place once your arse is in Denerim and the Archdemon’s leather and bones.”

“Right. Duncan said he was born in Highever; it’s not too far from here. Maybe, if we ever do see the back of Loghain and the Blight, we can put up a couple of monuments--one in the city, and the other here, for the recruits.”

“I think he’d like that,” Athadra said, and she left him with a nod to set up a cot in a far corner...close to Morrigan, as had become her custom.


	31. The Forked Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the Veil relatively secured, Athadra's company strikes out from Soldier's Peak, leaving Avernus to his machinations and parting ways with Levi Dryden. To get back to Redcliffe, the Wardens face a difficult choice, which could test the resolve of Athadra's companions.

Early the next morning, Athadra roused Alistair and Shale to help her reclaim Sophia’s armour, and to remove the body from the Keep. The demon had kept Sophia’s carcass pliable for two hundred years; it would not have surprised the Warden if it still carried the taint, and she didn’t want to risk Blighting any of her companions.

“That’s one ripe Warden Commander,” Alistair choked out, when they got Sophia’s breastplate unscrewed. The undertunic had long since merged with padding and rotting meat into a blackish green grime which clung to the inside of the steel. The demon had kept the body wet and livid, but not exactly alive. Athadra swallowed her disgust and helped him peel the rest of the armour from the dead woman’s body.

Once Sophia’s remains were shorn of protection, they were wrapped up in a linen; Shale condescended to carry them herself. Athadra followed, and Alistair stayed behind to put the armour into some semblance of order. “Does it want the dead one’s shell for itself?”

Athadra shook her head. “I don’t think I could ever get the sight of rotten flesh sticking to it out of my head.” The sight had been worse than seeing a freshly-dead darkspawn.

“A pitiable consequence of having flesh, I think. But then again, if it had no flesh, it would not need a shell to keep its innards intact, yes?” The golem gave a graveline chuckle.

“Watch it,” Athadra shot back with a smirk. “You had plenty of flesh on you some time. If magic can be done, it might be undone...”

“Do you really think that’s so?” Shale’s voice was as close to a whisper as she’d ever managed, and she’d forgotten to call Athadra _it_ , which drew the Warden to a halt just before the opened doorway. Shale paused beside the elf, her glowing gemstone eyes locked onto the other’s face.

“I...don’t know,” the Warden finally answered. “Dwarves aren’t supposed to be able to do magic, but Caridin used stone and lyrium like an alchemist. If some kind of magic fused you with your rock, magic may be able to divorce you from it.”

“Would the old magus know how, do you think?” Shale’s voice was even, but the Warden imagined that she could hear a faint strain of longing hidden behind the grinding.

“I doubt it,” Athadra sighed. “He’s mostly interested in blood magic.” She hesitated for a long moment, but eventually she took a breath. “We’ll have to go to Kinloch Hold sooner or later,” she admitted.

Shale nodded. “I remember the place,” she said, almost disbelievingly. “Wilhelm took me there, once...after the Rebellion. It’s where Ferelden houses its Circle of Magi, is it not?”

“Aye,” Athadra confirmed. “And I hoped never to see it again. They...may not be happy to see me, but if they are, we can ask about returning you to your mortal body. If you want.”

“Wilhelm merely wanted to impress his friends, and perhaps intimidate the steel men. You’ve said that the other Warden wished to be one?”

“It weren’t exactly a choice on his part,” Athadra pointed out, “but aye. Alistair almost became a templar.”

“I recall they treated all of the mages as Wilhelm treated me, or worse. In any case, I shall think on your offer. Thank you. Now, shall we do something with this?” She asked, jostling the package in her arms. “Did it have some ritual it would have preferred?”

The Warden stepped out into the cold morning air. “I’d bet she were an Andrastean, so she’d likely do with a good burning. We don’t have time to build a pyre, though...magic will have to serve.” Shale carried Sophia a fair distance into the courtyard, and Athadra blasted the snow and ice all the way down to the dirt. She was less practiced at summoning fire; Duncan’s lessons with flint and steel had seemed easier than her first meagre conjurings under Morrigan’s studied hand, but she managed to set the body to burning. Once the sheet had caught at both ends and the middle, the flames set into the flesh beneath, and soon the sickly-sweet smell had driven Athadra away.

“It’ll have to do,” Athadra said, before turning back into the Keep. Shale followed, and when they returned to the common room, the Warden found her companions packing up their belongings. Levi was again in conversation with Avernus, but he didn’t look too happy. Her ears twitched, picking up snatches of the words from across the room.

“...sure there’s nothing...?” Levi sounded dejected and sullen.

“...none to be found. But nobody even remembers...” Avernus seemed almost grandfatherly.

Athadra’s eyes snapped to Leliana, who sidled over easily.

“How do you do?” The red-haired assassin had a faint smile that was almost too perfect.

The Warden’s brow arched in curiousity. “I don’t do empty greetings,” she replied. “Is there a problem?”

“Not at all,” the half-Orlesian said. After a moment’s pause, she found her voice again. “I just noticed you and Alistair at council earlier...”

“I’m not trying to take your templar away from you,” Athadra assured her, wanting to laugh.

Leliana’s own brow shot up. “What...I...no!” A creep of red flushed at the edges of her face, but she shook her head. “I didn’t think that, I promise!”

Athadra shrugged. “Just making sure.”

“Anyway,” Leliana pressed on. “I was just wondering if you both discussed Avernus. Are you certain we can trust this...old man? He has dabbled in magics forbidden by the Maker.”

The Warden rolled her eyes. “The Maker tell you that Himself, did He?” When Leliana had no answer to that, Athadra pressed on. “He’s a blood mage and a Grey Warden. So am I. He’s also a brilliant alchemist, which I certainly am not. We may well need him to help us end the Blight.”

“So he’s to travel with us?”

A cough took hold of their attention; Avernus himself stood close by, a goblin’s grin on his face. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, child. Now that my efforts are no longer needed to keep the Veil from fracturing and turning Ferelden into a demon-haunted wasteland for darkspawn to pick over, I can refocus on my research. Sophia’s boy tells me that you all are little more than outlaws, at any rate; I daresay I wouldn’t survive the winter stalking through the woods.”

Athadra nodded, ignoring Leliana’s sigh of relief. “That would be best, Avernus. But Levi made mention of a brother and some other family following him here; take care nothing happens to them in your research.”

The old man’s grin fell. “Is my enquiry to be fettered and guided, then?”

Athadra looked at Leliana, and dismissed her with a jerk of the head. Even so, when she spoke, her tongue formed words in Tevene. “ _I hope not. But the man led us here and freed you from your burden, and his family stands untainted. I shall try to arrange some darkspawn blood for your cause_.”

“ _The source would do better. Wardens would do better still_.”

“ _I have no doubt_.” She paused. “ _Put fancies aside and set hands to purpose. Living darkspawn may come before the end of the Blight, but Wardens may ever be short in supply_.”

“ _Indeed_ ,” Avernus replied, somewhat mollified. “ _The civilians will come to no harm, so long as they avoid my tower_.” He shared a nod with the Warden and turned to go.

Athadra watched him gather the blanket and a bit of food, and when he was gone back on the way to the tower, she called her ramshackle group to some semblance of order. “We need to move on. I don’t want Eamon to start thinking he’s lost me quite yet.” Her eyes turned to Levi. “Do you want to stick with us, or bring your family here?”

The trader thought for a moment. “D’you think it’s safe?”

“Last night didn’t do us any harm,” Athadra answered with a shrug. “I can’t make any promises, Levi. We went room-by-room, but there could be more skeletons lurking about. The Veil’s strong enough now that they should stay dead, and there shouldn’t be any more visions, but I’m not sure.” She shrugged. “As long as you keep to the areas we’ve already explored, and stay out of Avernus’ tower, it should be safe enough.”

Levi nodded. “I guess that’s all I can ask for, Warden. I’ll bring me brother Mikhael here, at least, and we’ll try an’ clean the place up a bit.”

Athadra returned his nod. “As you wish.” She filled her own pack and strapped Ageless to her back. Shale took up the sacks which contained their food and the coin that Levi had given them for their loot, and Athadra led the way out of the Keep, through the ruined gate and the long, twisting cavern that lay beyond.

The Warden had a nearly-complete map of Thedas stowed away in the recesses of her memory, and she now knew that Soldier’s Peak lay in the coastal mountains East of Highever. She could either retrace their steps along the Imperial Highway, which would cover more ground but could go more quickly, or she could lead her companions more-or-less through the middle of the bannorn. The route was more direct, but the brewing war presented dangers Athadra couldn’t anticipate. On the other hand, she did not want to risk the templars’ attention by passing so close by Kinloch Hold again, if she could help it.

When they reached the North Road of the Imperial Highway, she could put the decision off no longer. Athadra looked around at the men and women who’d taken up her cause, who’d suffered and starved and killed on her and Alistair’s behalf. For the most part, that slaughter had been against demons and monsters that had no families to mourn them. The major exception was the dwarves of the Carta, and not all of her troop had partaken in that exercise.

“Why we stoppin’, boss?” Oghren broke her contemplation. “There’s still half a day in front of us.”

“I’m trying to decide which way to go.” She turned to regard her companions, from Sten to Shale. “Either way we go, we may have to fight against Fereldans. We got lucky coming here that no templars sussed Morrigan and me out, but if we pass so closely to the Circle again, they may not ignore us this time.” Her crimson eyes flashed in the noonday sun. “I’m not about to go back there without Arl Eamon’s guarantee that I’ll get out again, and if any tintops try to press the point, they shan’t live to regret it for very long.” She could see that Alistair looked uncomfortable, but he didn’t protest. Leliana and Zevran, the other Chantrists in the party, did not dissent either. “I’d rather not see it come to that, though. Not yet, at least.”

“What is the way forward, then?” The Sten spoke up. “We should not linger here.”

Athadra nodded. “Through the Bannorn. There should be fewer templars roaming about, but I suspect the rumours of war have bred outlaws or militias, which largely amount to the same thing.”

“If they stand against us, they’re standing with the darkspawn.” Alistair’s expression was far from his accustomed cocky smile. “Fereldan or not, I am a Grey Warden.”

Zevran chuckled. “I have already killed more Fereldans than you would like to know, then. I follow you, Warden, against whatever foes move against us.”

Athadra nodded, and looked at Shale. “You balked at killing dwarves, which turned out to be your own people. Will you fight with us against humans as well as the darkspawn?”

The golem took a moment. “If someone is fool enough to step between us and our goal, I shall crush their puny head,” she said with a bit of relish.

“A fine sentiment,” Morrigan echoed.

Athadra felt a weight in her stomach lesson, and she nodded. “Right.” Without another word, she turned and marched across the Imperial Highway, and into the rolling hills of the bannorn which lay beyond.


	32. The Warden in Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wardens cross the bannorn, and happen upon an unexpected ally. Athadra decides to take the man's mission, to head back to Ostagar and recover the secrets which King Cailan kept from his father-in-law.

The march South was cold, and grew just a bit colder with every step. When the party made camp that night, Athadra and Morrigan had pitched their tent much closer to everyone else than usual, so that they could all keep warmer by the main fire. The next day, the Wardens woke to a light dusting of snow which made the world look new.

Game was scarcer in the bannorn as well, especially from the season, and so they had to rely even more on their dwindling dwarven paste. They saw no one for most of that day, although Athadra suspected that others might have seen them. A golem could hardly be fleet of foot at the best of times. In the late afternoon, however, a commotion drew the party’s attention. A bloodied man in fine dress was running from a gang of armed men. Athadra thought to pass the group by, since she couldn’t know if the man was a criminal fleeing justice.

Alistair had other ideas, however. “Hey, now!” He jumped across the ditch and jogged toward the pursuers, and shouted again to draw their attention. There were five of them, three of whom had bows which suddenly swiveled around. Athadra cursed under her breath and ran after the blond Warden, drawing her daggers just in time to deflect an arrow soaring her way.

One of the accosters closest to the bloodied man turned her way. “It’s the Warden!” He exclaimed, eyes widening in surprise. He seemed to forget his quarry in an instant. “Get ‘er! Teyrn Loghain’s got an ‘undred sovs on ‘er ‘ead!” The brief fluttering of hope Athadra had felt at that first recognition shifted into a grim anticipation, and soon these men learned that a hundred sovereigns was far too little to trade for their lives.

After slashing through half-corporeal demons, it was oddly satisfying to feel hot blood bubbling over her fingers whenever Athadra’s daggers found flesh. With Zevran and Leliana’s bows and Morrigan’s spells, the would-be bounty hunters were felled without too much difficulty. An arrow caught the apparent ringleader’s throat, and so Athadra could not question him about Loghain’s bounty, but she could imagine it well enough; he’d promised to chase her to Tevinter, after all, and he had access to a royal treasury to do it. At least her price had increased since she’d first heard whisper of it in a Lothering tavern, so many weeks before.

The fugitive who’d motivated Alistair’s intervention was still breathing, but only just. “It’s...you,” he managed, when she stepped closer to him. “The Warden...recruit.”

“Aye,” Athadra confirmed, warily. Her daggers still glistened crimson in her hands. “What of it?”

“I saw you, at Ostagar,” he pressed. A cough took his voice for a moment, and Alistair knelt beside him, offering a sip from his own waterskin. “Thank you,” the man said, breathing easier. “I was one of good King Cailan’s men,” he continued. “I’m Elric...Elric Maraigne.”

Athadra’s eyes narrowed. “Then how are you still alive?”

Elric put up a hand in a silent plea for patience. After another drink from Alistair’s skin, he let his head rest against a knot of tree roots. “I pleaded with him to...let me stand with him. In his honour guard, as was my place. But he...he gave me a key.” Another coughing fit took hold, and Elric had to wipe blood from his lips by the time it had finished. “A key to a strongbox...he said he didn’t trust anyone to open it but him. Made me...made me promise not to tell the...the teyrn.”

Alistair looked up at her. “If he didn’t trust Loghain with whatever was inside, it must be very important. Do you think it could still be there?”

“It’s still there,” Elric asserted. “I was on my way to...try and open it, when these fiends caught up to me. Loghain...and Howe...” He spat that last name, and didn’t bother wiping the blood from his chin. “They’re hunting down everyone loyal to Cailan they can reach.” He wrestled his way up onto his elbows, and nodded to his breast pocket. “The key’s in there. Take it, before more of the teyrn’s men come.”

“We can try to heal you,” Athadra offered.

The nobleman shook his head. “I’ve outlived my king long enough. Promise me you’ll get back to the battlefield, that you’ll find his strongbox. It was in his tent, last I saw.”

Athadra closed her eyes, remembering where the royal canvas had been located. She could remember the fortress like she’d just left it the previous day; by now, it was long overrun by darkspawn, and she doubted the chest was still intact. But after the Deep Roads, the thought of cutting into a few dozen darkspawn no longer filled her with dread. “I will try,” she said, her crimson eyes opening.

Elric stared blankly up at her, and she knew his heart lay still even before she felt out with her magic. Athadra wasted little time in taking the man’s key, as well as the rest of the valuables he’d brought with him.

Alistair pretended not to notice the looting. “Ostagar,” he said, as they made their way back to the road.

“Ostagar,” Athadra echoed, loudly enough for the rest of the party to hear.

“Well, at least we’ll get to see how good darkspawn are at redecorating,” the taller Warden pointed out. “I’m sure they’ve done wonders with the old walls.”

It took a week of hard marching to cross the bannorn. They met a few country folk along the way, who were happy to trade food for coin when Athadra’s party made it clear they weren’t interested in banditry. Only once did they happen upon a skirmish, with a handful of Loghain’s men arrayed against a pathetic force loyal to some bann named Telmen in a frost-covered field. The Wardens’ mere appearance was enough to tip the scales, and Loghain’s lieutenant scrambled to a retreat; Athadra accepted the thanks of Telmen’s knight, and he promised to take word back to his master that the Wardens still drew their blades against the darkspawn.

Lothering was a painful sight. Athadra only approached it because it lay at the Southern fork in the Imperial Highway which they would need to reach the wreckage of Ostagar. A few bands of darkspawn remained near the ruined village, but the horde had dispersed since the battle to choke the South of Ferelden. Nothing taller than a boulder still stood for miles around Lothering, not even the stone bridge which had once lay at it’s centre. The new-fallen snow gave the ruins a pristine quality that made them seem much more ancient than the few handfuls of days which had passed since the last time the Wardens had crossed this ground.

This time, Athadra could not resist sweeping through the village’s Northern fields, looking for any sign of the little patch of land she’d spent her first decade helping to tend. The diffuse sensation of darkspawn put her on edge, her blood buzzing nearly as badly as it had in the Deep Roads. Search as she might, she found nothing but scorched treetrunks and pulled-down timbers.

“They had warning enough,” Alistair pointed out, when the sun had started its retreat down the Western sky. “They could have got out.”

“Aye,” Athadra conceded. “Or they could have been put to the question by Howe’s men.” She shook her head. “Let’s go.” She had no tears to shed, but she said a silent goodbye to her mother and father, and hoped that they had not suffered in her absence.

The Highway to Ostagar lay deserted; perhaps the sight of Lothering was enough to scare away even the most desperate treasure-seekers from venturing farther South. The party slept but little, with half of them standing guard at a time, and before the next dawn they continued the march. Athadra drew them to a halt when she could see the Tower of Ishal looming amongst the wintry clouds in the distance.

“You feel it, too,” Alistair said. “There are some strong darkspawn down the road.”

Athadra unlimbered her sword and nodded. “We’ll get off the Highway and circle around West. There was flat ground in the soldiers’ encampment...that’s where we’ll make our incursion.”

Picking their way through the forest took the rest of the morning. The trees were empty of leaves, and most had had their branches stripped up to Shale’s shoulder-height, so the going wasn’t too onerous. The forest ceded way to the makeshift campground in the late hours of the morning, and their easy progress was checked by a clutch of darkspawn.

A particularly powerful genlock Emissary led from the rear, and retreated before the Wardens’ advance. It led them on a chase through the Southern wing of the fortress; Athadra recognized the infirmary, and then where the table had stood where she’d conversed with Loghain, and finally to the area where she’d first touch the Joining chalice to her lips. In each of these places, more darkspawn closed ranks around the emissary, and Athadra’s party did not rest until black blood steamed upon the snows.

They found Cailan’s chest near to the remains of Duncan’s bonfire. The darkspawn seemed to give the area a wide berth, and so Athadra had the chance to open the chest in peace. Within, she found a gilded sword which Alistair claimed as the former King Maric’s. As well, there was a series of letters, which suggested that Cailan might have been considering finding himself a new wife...and there was some evidence that that wife might have been the Empress Celene of Orlais.

“Bet that would have pleased Loghain,” Alistair huffed. “Maybe enough to make him think twice before joining the battle, regardless of the signal.”

“Might be,” Athadra said with a shrug. “But he mightn’t’ve known anything about it. But that doesn’t matter, now. Here.” She tossed the sheathed sword to the other Warden. “He were your father, too. You should wield his sword.”

Alistair looked taken aback for just a moment before his eyes narrowed. “You mean I should be seen to wield it,” he pointed out, to Athadra’s surprise.

Leliana sidled up. “I think that is a marvelous idea, cherie. You want to be seen as your father's son, non?”

Athadra nodded. “My thoughts, exactly. If we can find the rest of Cailan’s armour, you’d do well to consider wearing it as well.” Thus far, they’d found a grieve and a gauntlet scavenged by two separate hurlocks. If they were lucky, the other pieces had found homes upon local darkspawn, as well. Alistair seemed dubious, but ultimately nodded.

The brief lull afforded by the darkspawns’ aversion to the bonfire’s ashes was closed when that meddling emissary reappeared, bringing with it a few powerful darkspawn, as well as Blight-touched wolves and a few risen Mabari corpses. Garahel whined, reluctant to fight his fallen brethren, and Alistair just barely managed to draw his father’s sword when the battle was joined once more.

Athadra tried to cut her way through to the emissary, who seemed far too clever for her liking, but the other darkspawn proved unwilling to let their leader fall. When that skirmish ended, she kept pressing, chasing the emissary North across the ancient bridge. Along the way, they passed the only body which the darkspawn hadn’t dragged beneath the ground--that of King Cailan himself. Alistair was the first to pause.

“That’s odd,” he said at last. The corpse was hung up in the centre of the bridge, impaled on wooden and iron spikes that the darkspawn had thrown up. Pieces were missing from the bloated body, picked off by the darkspawn or tainted animals, but the blond hair and the curve of the jaw made it unmistakable. “We should try and get him down. Give him a proper funeral.” Leliana and Zevran concurred, and even Shale said that burning would smell more pleasant than what remained.

“If we can catch that damned genlock,” Athadra said, as the fiend came back to taunt them again with more of its allies. It led them the rest of the way across the bridge and right to the base of the Tower of Ishal. The door had been smashed in, but Athadra drew up short of re-entering the tower after the monster. She didn’t want to get overwhelmed from the rear, as had happened the last time she’d climbed the tower. “I think that some of us should stay back,” she said after a moment’s thought. She looked up to Alistair, and then across to Morrigan. “I doubt Flemeth would make another convenient appearance, just for our sake.”

The taller Warden nodded. “Right. And you want me to stay back, because Arl Eamon has decided I’ll be the king.”

“You, Shale, the Sten, and Zevran,” Athadra answered. “I’ll trust you four to keep the way out clear for the rest of us, which mightn’t be as bloodless a task as you fear,” she pointed out. “And if we don’t come back before sunrise, you get back to Redcliffe, as quickly as you can.”

“I guess so,” Alistair conceded. “You’d better come back. Try not to have too much fun without me.” He took position with the Antivan elf and the snarky golem on the ancient stone steps leading up to the tower’s entrance. The Sten stood by the ruined door, and he promised to find her sword if she fell within. She told him to try and find his own, first, at Redcliffe.

The smaller Warden squared her shoulders and climbed those stairs. Morrigan, Oghren, and Leliana fell into step beside her, and Garahel was never more than a hop away. With these companions at her back, Athadra did not turn away from the tingling in her blood...instead, despite Duncan’s distant caution, she feared that she was coming to relish it.


	33. Imperatorem Graucius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Warden discovers the source of the darkspawn's success in taking the Tower of Ishal, and she recovers a few mementos from her brief mentor. When Athadra returns from the bowels of the tower, she learns that Alistair has found Duncan's hidden cache of Warden supplies as well, and her authority gets recognized once and for all.

“Betcher glad you brought me along, boss,” chuckled Oghren. The dwarf had already made that comment since the genlock emissary had surprised them by scurrying into Ishal’s basement caverns, from whence the darkspawn had tunneled during the battle which had tipped Ferelden into a civil war.

“I would be, if you’d lay off the homebrew,” Athadra shot back with a smirk.

“But then how would he disarm the darkspawn in advance of charging?” Morrigan drawled. She sometimes had to duck in the winding passage, and apparently did not like the short man to remind her of it.

Eventually the tunnel gave way to a chamber, which then opened to the valley that had turned into a killing field. It was here that the emissary made its stand; it didn’t take Athadra long to see why. The genlock was more than just a mage--it was also a necromancer, which Athadra had suspected since noticing the risen mabari hounds. Proof of those suspicions came when a large mound of snow shifted, and a truly enormous ogre lurched up from the ground. Two daggers stuck out from its neck, and its torso was riven with arrows and bloodstained stab wounds.

“Y’all see that too, right?” Oghren asked, as several other slain darkspawn took up their arms once more.

“Aye,” Athadra confirmed, her stomach turning. “Keep back.” She glanced at Morrigan. “Let’s try and thaw them out.” The Wilds-witch nodded, and the Warden locked the distracted emissary up into a crushing prison. Those few moments were enough for Morrigan to gather up her energy to unleash a firestorm on the field before them, which slowed the frigid corpses somewhat. Athadra followed-up by slicing open her forearm and using her own tainted blood to boil the emissary from within, while Leliana feathered their foes with arrows and Oghren bellowed insults.

Avernus’ potion had made the Warden’s blood magic even more effective against darkspawn...the ones whose hearts still beat, at any rate. The emissary fell before the firestorm abated, and the attack had weakened most of the undead monsters enough that Oghren’s axe and Athadra’s sword saw them to their final end. The ogre seemed a different matter, however; no matter how much flesh the warriors sheared from the dead fiend’s bones, nor which magics Morrigan tried to still it with, the ogre kept coming.

“Garahel, get back!” Athadra called, drawing the beast’s attention. Her mabari hesitated, wanting to rejoin the attack, but a glance from the Warden saw Garahel’s capitulation. As soon as the dog was safe beside Morrigan and Leliana, Athadra drove the remainder of her mana into her muscles and then drew as much of Garahel’s life force into her own physical strength as she dared. She managed to duck under one of the ogre’s punches and leap up to straddle its shoulder, and she brought Ageless down across the back of its head with all her might.

The blow cracked through the dead beast’s skull, and another scattered grey-green brain matter across the snow. Oghren’s axe still chopped into the fiend’s abdomen, while Athadra struck down into its spinal column a third time. That was enough to rob the monster of its second life, and the Warden barely managed to jump away in time to keep the lumbering corpse from crushing her leg.

Morrigan rushed over when Athadra sank down into a snowdrift, her mana drained and muscles exhausted by the ferocious attack. The Wilds-witch sent a wave of blue healing energy through the Warden, and took particular care to seal the slash in Athadra’s forearm, made in a small gap in her gauntlet, so that it would not scar. After a moment, Athadra stirred, and looked across their battlefield.

“It’s the Wilds to the South,” she remarked, “and more darkspawn.”

“As well as Mother,” Morrigan pointed out, though she seemed no more thrilled by that prospect.

“Aye. We should probably turn back, then.” As she got to her feet, Athadra’s crimson eyes fell upon the ogre she’d felled--the fourth, by her count, considering the two she’d brought down in the Deep Roads. Something seemed familiar about the daggers stuck into either side of its neck, and when she got closer, memories flashed of Duncan wearing those selfsame blades in the hours before the fated battle that had presumably seen his end.

With some difficulty, she managed to wrench the blades from the Blighted carcass. Instantly she could feel the magic within them; they’d been runed, likely specifically against the darkspawn. After a moment’s consideration, Athadra wiped them clean on the snow and handed over her own daggers to Leliana. It felt strangely satisfying to have Duncan’s weapons at her hips, as though part of him were still with her.

Garahel huffed at her, nosing a long shadow; the hours had slipped away in the battle across the fortress, and Athadra had no desire to see what nightfall would bring. Her blood was still singing from the battle, but that didn’t mean more darkspawn weren’t lurking about. “Let’s go,” she said, and she led them back through the bowels of the tower.

“You’ll never guess what we found,” Alistair called out, when they came through the smashed front door. A half-dozen darkspawn lay freshly dead nearby, pointing to the wisdom of Athadra’s plan.

“Looks like a few hurlocks found you,” Athadra replied. “Did you get the rest of Cailan’s plate?” They’d collected everything but the chest piece.

Alistair looked over his shoulder and shrugged. “Well, yeah, but that’s not the surprise. During the fight, we found a room at the bottom of one of the watchtowers. A Warden room.” He was practically bouncing in his boots.

Athadra’s brow arched. “And how do you know this?”

“Because there’s a griffon carved into the door, and it’s locked pretty well. Zev tried.” Evidently the taller Warden had forgiven the Antivan elf for trying to kill them all...at least enough to use his nickname.

Zevran coughed conspicuously. “Honestly, my fingers are better at...how is it said?” He cocked his head and grinned with a flourish. “Ahh, yes. Chastity belts.” He winked, and seemed proud of the groans he’d earned.

Leliana stepped forward. “Let me see if I can do any better.” She rifled through her pack until she found her lockpicks and then set to work. After a few minutes of cursing in Orlesian, however, her shoulders slumped. “It really is well-protected.”

“Might wanna get out of the way,” Oghren said, stifling a belch. When she’d done so, he sauntered over, unshouldering his battle axe. The dwarf took a couple of practice swings and then grunted a battlecry, unleashing a blow on the door that Athadra was sure would break through it and into the room beyond. Instead, the axe bounced off the door like it was a twig rather than dwarven steel, slipping from Oghren’s grasp on the recoil. Alistair tackled Leliana out of the way just in time, and the Sten clapped his hands on either side of the double-bearded axehead, stopping it a finger’s breadth from his own chest.

“You should take more care, dwarf,” was all the Qunari said; even so, it was the longest address he’d given Oghren directly. The Sten tossed the axe aside, and resumed leaning silently against a stripped treetrunk. The door looked completely undisturbed.

“I guess when the Wardens want something protected,” marveled Alistair, “they mean business.”

Shale sighed. “It had but to ask for my assistance, and I would have provided. Clearly the door is warded by powerful enchantments.”

Oghren huffed. “How’s a talkin’ pile o’ rubble know that?”

Athadra thought Shale was rolling her eyes, though the glow was undisturbed. “I spent several years with an enchanter, you axe-wielding sack of nug piss,” she shot back.

“I’ll have to remember that one,” Oghren said, scratching his beard. “Might come in useful if I run into any lippy surfacers.”

Athadra stepped in. “Do you think you could get past the door, Shale?” If it really was a Warden cache, she wanted to know what was in it. “It could be dangerous, if the darkspawn couldn’t get in.”

The golem examined the doorway. “It is very well sealed, as you could likely tell,” she said, obviously to Athadra. “But I don’t think the wards extend past the door frame. I believe I can break through the wall. Just in case it is booby-trapped, I suggest all fleshy creatures seek refuge elsewhere.” Shale gave the rest of the party only a moment to scramble away before she drew back a fist and measured a strike against the stone wall at the base of the watchtower. Another few blows saw a window-sized hole opened in the wall, and a few minutes later Shale had widened the hole downward so that Athadra and Zevran could fit through the aperture.

The Warden was the first inside, Duncan’s daggers drawn. Her elven eyes adjusted quickly to the trickle of evening light from Shale’s opening, and she moved out of the way to let Zevran in after her. Within, they found a few wooden boxes as well as leather satchels. The boxes had weapons and armour in them, and the sacks carried documents and supplies, but the room was too dark to discern any details; Athadra had to do most of the heavy lifting, but it didn’t take long to disgorge the small chamber of its contents.

“These are encrypted,” Alistair pronounced at the first sight of one of the scrolls. “And I wasn’t a Warden long enough to learn the cypher.”

Athadra looked over the documents, but couldn’t even recognize the symbols, much less any pattern in the clusters they formed. “Well, it makes sense that Duncan would have something like a headquarters here,” she said.

“Right,” Alistair agreed. “All of us had set up here for almost a month. I just wish they’d told me about this hoard. We could have used it on the way to Lothering.”

Morrigan tsked. “The whole area was still host to an orgy of feasting. It’s a wonder we haven’t already been overrun.”

Athadra suppressed a smirk at the bickering between the two, and handed out the sacks of supplies. “Take stock of these, and then see if you want to trade any weapons. We shouldn’t hang about too much longer.” The shadows were growing dangerously long by now, but the largest box drew her interest; like the others, it had the griffon crest burnt into the wood, but it also had the Andish words Kommandant der Grauen inscribed boldly across the lid.

Alistair peeked over her shoulder. “Commander of the Grey?” Athadra glanced up at him and nodded. “This must have been Duncan’s official armour,” the taller Warden remarked. “That’s the Warden Commander’s official title, all the way from Weisshaupt Fortress.”

“Let’s see what’s inside, then,” Athadra said. It took a bit of leverage to work the hinges, and inside lay a splendid set of heavy armour. It had blue underpadding, just like the more mundane pieces the Wardens had worn when she’d known them, but most of the outfit was silvery steel tinged with gold. A gilded griffon spread its wings across the breastplate; even the helmet had wings. “Why weren’t he wearing this when I met him?” The sight was almost too much to bear.

Alistair shrugged. “I suppose he didn’t want to set himself too far above the rest of us. We were more like a family than a military order, really.”

Athadra nodded, and considered the armour. Its gold could fetch a decent price, if the very Warden-ness of the piece weren’t enough to scare away any merchants. It didn’t look to fit her, but she certainly wasn’t going to let anyone else wear the armour; even if the Grey Wardens numbered only three, she was still Commander of the Grey in Ferelden. And yet she couldn’t countenance leaving the suit here, to be scavenged by the Wardens’ perennial enemies.

Stalling for time, she stroked her thumb across one of the boots. Suddenly the wind whipped up about her and the metal armour grew intolerably hot, and yet she could not pull her hand away. Athadra could not hear the worried queries of her companions. Instead, her free hand and her eyes traveled to the griffon symbol so proudly displayed, and her palm spread out over the shining breastplate of its own volition. The steel began to glow red, and she could swear that she heard a chorus of voices echoing around her. Her own lips curved around the words.

_In War, Victory. In Peace, Vigilance. In Death, Sacrifice._

Before her eyes, the armour set reformed, as if under a master smith’s hammer. It became smaller and a bit sleeker, though the metal was still thick plate. It only released Athadra’s grip when it had taken a size to fit her own frame.

“Well,” Alistair ventured, after a moment. “That’s settled, then. You really _are_ the Commander of the Grey.”


	34. Laurels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wardens finally make it back to Redcliffe's banquet table after too long starving on the road. They learn of a few momentous events in Ferelden's political scene which took place during their long stint underground, and inform the arl about a few of their own activities while away.

The half-moon glinted from its apex, lighting the Wardens’ way on the Highway. They intended to put as much time and distance between them and Ostagar as their feet would allow. Cailan's gilded plate shone regally from Alistair's chest in the light of the moon, though the man still claimed that it smelled of the darkspawn they'd rescued it from.

"Too bad we didn't find it in a box," he sulked, stifling a yawn.

Athadra hid her smirk by glancing into the trees. Some of them bore signs of the Blight, but most still had their needles. "We can stop for the night soon," she said. "You'll be able to wash the muck out then." Nearly everyone had re-equipped themselves from the Warden cache, but Alistair had insisted on building his half-brother a funeral pyre, and so evading a resurgence of the nocturnally-inclined monsters had been a close thing. Athadra's own armour fit her better than her dwarf-forged mail, though it was a fair sight heavier; she found herself drawing upon her magic just to keep herself walking.

The Wardens made a tight camp in the shadow of the elevated road, and they managed a few hours' rest before Alistair and Athadra both sensed darkspawn bearing down upon them from the South. Hunger slowed them eventually, but they managed to claw their way back to Redcliffe in the space of a week--by then, all of their armour hung a bit more loosely about them.

When at last Athadra approached the great bridge to Redcliffe Castle in the mid-morning, a mounted knight issued a challenge. "Who goes there?"

The Warden held up her hands. "Just a starving elf and her friends, looking for some proper lodgings."

The knight cocked his head, taking in the emblem on Athadra's breastplate. Then, as if struck, he threw himself from his horse and clumsily knelt. "Champion! A thousand pardons! I did not realize."

The gesture caught Athadra off her guard. She did not recognize the man, but he had obviously heard of her. "That'll do, Ser...?"

"Ser Rickhard, Champion. It is an honour to meet you."

Alistair coughed. "I thought we were all declared Champions of Redcliffe, too." He looked around. "Well, at least me. And Sten. And Morrigan, I suppose." Garahel barked. "And the dog," Alistair conceded.

Ser Rickhard blanched anew. "Then you must be Prince Alistair!" He fell to kneeling once more.

The taller Warden grunted. "Forget I said anything." He shook his head, muttering, "I'd throw up if I had anything in my belly..."

Athadra waved her hand. "May we pass, Ser Rickhard? Before we resort to cannibalism?"

"Of course," he replied, and sounded the call to raise the portcullis for the Champion of Redcliffe.

" _Champions_ ," corrected Alistair, under his breath.

Before they knew it, Athadra and all of her companions had been drawn across the bridge, their loads lightened by curious knights and fawning squires. Luckily, Shale fit through the major doorways, and so they made their way to the main hall under a flurry of questions that they all ignored.

Arl Eamon made it into the hall a scant moment after Athadra. He took one look at the mottled company and nearly fainted. “Return to your posts,” he ordered the men who’d ushered the Wardens in. “I apologize, Warden. We should prepare a feast, to properly welcome you back.”

“I’d settle for a hearty breakfast, first,” Athadra shot back.

Eamon nodded, and told one of his attendants to set about preparing a meal. “I received an envoy from the King of Orzammar more than a week ago, informing me that you had secured his allegiance to end the Blight. What kept you from returning straightaway?”

Athadra heard honest concern in his voice, though she did not know if it was for her, or simply for the plans that her actions would enact. “Warden business,” she replied curtly, sharing a quick glance with Alistair.

“Ahh,” said the arl. “I see Duncan impressed the value of confidence upon you. That is good. I shall not pry into your secrets, then, and I pray that you shall keep mine.”

“We won’t have much of a choice,” Alistair quipped, “if we don’t get some grub in the next ten minutes.”

Eamon blinked, noticing the other Warden for the first time. “Is that... _Cailan’s armour_?” He shook his head, steadying himself on the table. “Where did you get that, boy?”

“Oh, you know,” Alistair said. “A hurlock here, a genlock there. It all adds up.”

“So you returned to Ostagar?” Eamon drew himself a seat; he sounded impressed and incredulous, all at once. “How did you make it out alive?”

Athadra shrugged and took a chair for herself. “We’re Grey Wardens,” she said. “More or less,” she added, after sharing a look with Morrigan. A moment later, a line of servants marched in from the kitchens, platters overflowing. Apparently the cooks remembered the Champions of Redcliffe, as well. Conversation became impossible over the ravenous consumption of food; only when the third such train of servants had come and gone could it resume.

Eamon cleared his throat. “I’m glad your mission to Orzammar was successful.” His eyes touched upon Oghren and Shale in turn. “More successful than I’d imagined. Much has also happened above ground in your absence.” When Athadra only nodded, he breathed a sigh. “The bannorn has proved more resistant to Loghain’s authority than we feared might happen. Several battles have already been fought, with some significant losses on both sides.”

“We passed through the middle of the country without too much difficulty,” the Warden said. “There was only one skirmish we stumbled into.”

The arl nodded. “The lateness of the season precludes serious campaigning, yet not diplomacy. The banns West of Lothering are almost all antagonistic to the teyrns; they only control the border crossing to Orlais and the Northern ports by force. Most bannrics in the bannorn proper have remained neutral or outright hostile as well--Loghain can only reach Gwaren, his home village, if he rides in force or takes ship.” Despite this good news, Eamon’s lips curved into a frown.

Athadra broke in. “Teyrns? Loghain’s convinced Cousland to his cause, as well?” That was grim news, indeed.

Eamon shook his head. “Howe is the Teyrn of Highever, now. The Couslands have been slaughtered as traitors...except for Bryce’s eldest boy, who stood for the family at Ostagar.” He looked around at the large group. “Might we discuss matters more privily, Warden?”

Athadra shrugged. “Alistair and I will just tell the rest of our people, later. I can’t ask them to die for me without knowing why.”

The arl nodded, reluctantly. “Very well. We must act while the cold weather gives us a bit of breathing space, to secure our allies against Loghain and the Blight. I’ve gotten reports that the Dalish elves have been penned into the Brecilian Forest by the darkspawn and the war, and now the winter. They should be able to hold out until spring. Which means...”

“The Circle,” Athadra finished for him, her stomach tightening around her food.

“Indeed,” Eamon confirmed. “You could be there the day after tomorrow, if you took one of my ships.”

The Warden paused, and then slowly shook her head. “Not so soon,” she said, holding the older man’s gaze. “When I left that place, I was broken and weak, and I’d nearly wound up in Aonar. I’m not going back without enough of your steel to get me out again, if need be.” When Eamon looked to protest, she pressed on. "Besides, the tower won't fall into Lake Calenhad until at least Satinalia. I think the Champions of Redcliffe should stay amongst their people until then. We wouldn't want our base of support to start wondering why I can't show me face."

The arl's frown threatened to knot his great beard, but eventually he nodded. "That is true," he granted. "Ser Perth has ensured your legend has taken root amongst my household guard. I believe he would lead his men into the thick of the Wilds at your behest. And the people hold you personally accountable for their salvation from my wife's...misplaced trust." He stroked his beard, thoughtfully.

"Did they forget that I and the others were here, too?" Alistair's mood, lightened by the meal, looked to sour once more.

"Not at all, my boy," Eamon assured him. "Yet they know that you are Maric's only living son, and his true heir."

Alistair grunted. "Just because you made sure they do."

The arl put up a hand. "Be that as it might, your rightful place is in Denerim. Now that you have Cailan's armour, the rest of the country may follow suit in Redcliffe's esteem."

"Or they'll think I murdered him myself," Alistair countered.

"Some will," Eamon conceded. "But your courage will shine through Loghain's treachery, in the end.” He paused for a moment, and something of the uncle in him shone through the statesman’s veneer. “Did you find my nephew's body?"

"Aye," Athadra said. "Alistair saw him to ash personally." She nodded to her fellow Warden.

Arl Eamon swallowed, and gazed into the fire to hide the shining in his eyes. "Thank you, my boy. We should speak later, just the two of us."

Alistair nodded. “I’d like that.”

“As for the other two,” Eamon said, only to have the mabari sound off a protest.

“Don’t forget Garahel,” Athadra reminded him with a smirk.

Eamon’s gaze caught on the dog, and he actually managed a laugh. “Why not? What could be more appropriate than a mabari champion in Ferelden?” He shook his head, while the dog looked inordinately pleased with himself. “The people of Redcliffe will always be grateful to all of you, but the only reason the rest were here is because of you, Warden.”

Athadra rose to her feet, letting the firelight flicker off her breastplate. “I am the Commander of the Grey in Ferelden,” she said, an edge of confidence in her tone that hadn’t existed since before she’d been taken to the Circle Tower. “And you yourself named me Champion of Redcliffe. I will answer to either of those, Arl Eamon.” A smile sweetened the slight rebuke.

The Arl’s brow furrowed, but after a moment, he stood as well. “Then allow me to welcome you home, Champion.” He extended his hand across the table.

Athadra clasped his forearm and shook once. “Do either of you wish to take up the title, as well?” She looked first to Morrigan, and then to the Sten.

“Absolutely not,” the Wilds-witch replied. “I stand with you to end the Blight, not to accrue meaningless accolades from brainless peasants.”

The Sten shrugged. “I was made Sten by my Arishok, and only he can change my rank.”

“That’s settled, then,” said Athadra. “What do you say, Prince Alistair?”

“I guess so,” he replied, consoling himself with another bite of mutton. “It’ll take me longer to get used to my fancy new title than it’s taken you, I suspect.”

Arl Eamon broke in. “But you will grow accustomed to it. And Maker willing, you’ll take up an even higher one before next year leaves us.” The gold-plated Warden had no answer for that, but he did not protest, either.

Athadra nodded. "I trust you've kept our rooms in order?"

“Indeed,” Eamon confirmed.

"Good. Oghren, you and Zevran can share." They both aired their pleasure in  colourful curses. "That wasn't a request," she reminded them. "Shale, I don't think you can fit up the stairs, so you'll have to settle here or in the entrance hall."

"I can stand with the suits of armour and see if the squishy servants notice," Shale suggested. "As long as there are no birds."

Athadra laughed. "Don't let me see any of you for the next twenty hours," she said. " _Except you_ ," she breathed to Morrigan, in Elvish. The woman rewarded her with a particular smile; they had not had a proper moment of privacy since before Soldier's Peak, and now that Athadra's belly was full, she found she had other hungers in need of sating.


	35. A Warden's Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athadra reinforces her habit of keeping promises to her companions, as she finally tracks down the Sten's lost sword. In return, the Qunari offers to train the Warden in a style of Tevinter combat which might let her wear her armour unaided and use her magic for proper spells, though the path will not be easy for either of them.

Noon saw Athadra still tangled up in her bedsheets and in Morrigan’s arms, soaking in every comfortable moment, since they’d come so rarely to her of late. Her fingers flowed over the other woman’s abdomen, hiding her face in the Wilds-witch’s neck. She felt Morrigan stir beneath her touch, and the Warden’s lips worked up the side of Morrigan’s throat until the other woman sighed.

“I don’t want to get up,” Athadra mumbled, working her lips up Morrigan’s jawline. The other woman’s head tilted, and Athadra’s tongue stole whatever reply threatened. Morrigan twisted beneath her, delving into the kiss and pushing Athadra back into the pillows.

Those strange eyes glimmered in the low light from the fire. “Why do you intend to?” Her lips still brushed against Athadra’s as she spoke, which brought tingles from the depths of the elf’s belly.

Her fingers knotted in Morrigan’s hair, and with great reluctance, Athadra put a centimetre between their mouths. “I made a promise,” she sighed. “Too long delayed.”

“Indeed,” Morrigan answered, closing the distance once more for the space of three breaths. She relinquished her hold on the elf, and Athadra dragged herself from the temptations of the bed.

The Warden set to work buckling herself into her armour as Morrigan retrieved the gilded mirror, and they passed the moments in silence.

“Are you certain you don’t want to come?” Athadra took a long, indulgent look at the Wilds-witch, who was just finishing the touch of evenshade about her eyes.

Morrigan  set down the mirror and curled back into a pillow, a tinge of bliss in her smile. “I am not done taking advantage of a proper mattress. Go and show off with your giant, if you must. I will be about upon your return.”

The Warden paused by the door, stealing another backward glance, before she forced herself out of the comfortable room, with Garahel at her heel. She found the Sten where she’d expected, in the converted storage closet which was barely large enough for him to sit comfortably in. “What is your wish, Kadan?”

“We’ve got to go see a dwarf about a sword,” she said. Her lips curved into a smirk when the Sten’s violet eyes finally opened, and he nodded.

The three made the long march across the castle’s bridge and down the red clay hill to the village in a comfortable silence, barring the grateful outburst of “Champion!” from the grateful denizens of Redcliffe. Athadra saw Murdock, the village’s mayor, in conversation with the Chantry’s revered mother. The old woman blanched when she noticed the two heretics approaching the steps of the holy place, but she stood her ground as they approached.

“Warden,” Murdock called, stepping down onto the dirt. His voice was as gruff as ever. “Though I hear they call you ‘Champion’, now.”

“And what of the brave templars who fell in defence of our fair village?” The revered mother sniffed. “Are they not laudable as well?”

Athadra shrugged and looked about the Chantry’s doors; none of the tintops stood about. “Looks like their brothers are still honouring their memory,” she replied. “I wonder when their grief will end and they’ll show their faces...or their helmets, at least.”

The revered mother glowered. “You know very well why the templars might be reluctant to return here, mage.” She spit the word with nearly as much venom as the Grand Cleric of Ferelden had done, back at Ostagar.

The Warden climbed a single step. “Aye, it were a mage what kept those monsters from stripping the flesh from your face. Not the tintops. I can live with that. Can you?”

The revered mother’s mouth worked silently for a moment, and Murdock spoke up again. “Mother Hannah, it might be best we pick up this conversation later.”

The woman gave him a despairing look. “Andraste preserve us,” she muttered, and retreated into the bosom of the Chantry.

Murdock bowed after her and then turned to the Warden. “What can I do for you, Champion?”

“Looking for a dwarf called Dwyn,” Athadra said, still smirking at herself. “I think I remember trying to round him up to defend the village, but he held tight. Has he found his way out of his hole?”

The mayor scratched his beard. “I don’t think he has, Champion. You have business with him?”

Athadra nodded. “He’s got something that belongs to my friend.” The Sten frowned loudly.

Murdock grunted. “Well, you’ll get no complaint from me if he takes some persuading to give it up. His sword could have saved more than one of our folk, had he seen fit to lift it. He still lives across the way, at the near end of the docks. Good luck to you.” He clapped a fist to his breast and bowed slightly before continuing the grim business of running the village.

The Warden made her way across the grounds, once filled with barricades and strewn with corpses not so long before, to the cured wood of the docks. She recalled the shape of Dwyn’s house and hazarded a knock at the door. He gave the expected reply...that is, none at all. After another fruitless round, she kicked at the doorway until it gave way.

Dwyn stood in his living room, flanked by two humans, all brandishing weapons. “You again? Isn’t that damned zombie apocalypse over?” He did not relax his stance.

Athadra shrugged. “You made friends with a red-headed merchant called Faryn, who pawned a hornhead’s sword off on you.”

That took the dwarf by surprise, and he straightened. “What about it?”

The Sten stepped forward, causing Dwyn and his thugs to flinch. “It’s mine,” he growled, his violet eyes sparkling dangerously.

“Ahh,” the dwarf said, grimacing. “The bastard didn’t tell me that the giant he took the sword from was still alive.” He shook his head, fingers playing over the shaft of his warhammer. Neither the Sten nor Athadra had their weapons drawn, but his caution kept him from exercising his options even as he considered them. After a moment he sighed and stood down. “It’s in the back. Take it as a parting gift, and leave me the hell alone.”

The Sten kept his eyes fixed on Dwyn and his two associates, while Athadra searched the back room. She was tempted to ransack the place, but she hadn’t brought her pack, and if she took too long the dwarf might get suspicious anyway. The sword was unmistakable, hung up above a locked chest; she recognized the design from the few Qunari mercenaries she’d fought. It was heavier than it looked, but not as heavy as Ageless at her back, and when she showed it to the Sten he nodded after a single glance. “Later,” he told her when she held the blade out to him.

“Thank you, sers,” the Warden said with a small bow, and she, the Sten, and Garahel left the dwarfs house. The Sten did not accept the blade until they’d made the long trek up Redcliffe’s high hill, and stood equidistant between the bridge which would take them to the castle and the smaller one which connected the village to the Imperial Highway and the world beyond.

At last the Sten closed his fingers around the sword’s hilt; he closed his eyes and brought the flat of the blade up to his lips, murmuring in his own tongue. “I had almost forgotten what it feels like,” he said at last. “Completion.” He cast off the greatblade he’d worn since the recent trip to Ostagar and stuck the borrowed blade deep into the frozen clay, and he seemed to come alive when his own sword had taken its place. “It is called Asala--the soul. Without it, any soldier of the Beresaad is known as soulless, a deserter to be slain on sight.”

“I remember. That were why you couldn’t go home,” said Athadra. “And now you’ve got it back.” She regretted not being able to find the sword sooner, especially since she’d already encountered Dwyn before, but part of her had been grateful to have the Sten along with them. She looked to her left, up the road away from the castle. “What will you do, now?”

“The Arishok sent me to Ferelden to answer a question: What is the Blight?” He looked from the last distant hill to the Warden at his elbow. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “I cannot be certain I have my answer until the Archdemon we saw beneath the ground has fallen. I believe the Arishok will be satisfied if I can report that the Blight has ended.”

The Warden met his gaze, her heart lifting. “Good. I would not like to see the back of you just yet.” She returned his smile.

The Sten tilted his head. “Are you sure you are a Grey Warden?”

Athadra bit back a laugh, remembering the first question she’d asked him. “I seem a little small?”

He barked a laugh. “You are a giant among mice, Kadan. And you must be an Ashkaari to find a single lost blade in a country at war with itself.”

“I’ll take that,” the Warden replied, and she set off toward the first portcullis with the Qunari to one side and the mabari to the other.

The Sten spoke up unexpectedly as they walked onto the long bridge. “You plan on remaining here through the winter?”

Athadra nodded. “At least until the day after Satinalia, the Winter solstice. Then we’re heading across the lake.” She pointed North. “The Circle Tower stands on an island, past the horizon. We’ll see what joy can be found there with our treaties.”

“That still leaves us a month,” the Sten said, thoughtfully. “That will serve.”

“What did you have in mind?” Athadra’s brow arched...she was unused to the Qunari making suggestions, since their duel in the woods near Haven.

“You and I have sparred frequently since we met. You have become a passable warrior in that time, but you have yet to live up to the legends of the Grey Wardens.”

“I grounded you,” she pointed out, nudging his hip with her elbow.

“I lacked my sword,” he countered. “And you used magic.”

Athadra sighed. “I suppose you’re going to teach me to fight without it?” The Sten nodded. “How? I can’t even step in this sodding suit without concentrating a little bit.”

“And that will kill you when next you face the darkspawn,” he pronounced.

“So should I hang it up, like Duncan did?” Her tone was flippant, but she couldn’t say she hadn’t considered it. Perhaps Owen was still grateful enough to her to work her up a lighter set.

“No,” the Qunari answered, almost at once. “The time will come to face this Teyrn Loghain on the battlefield. The armour would not have chosen you if you could not earn the right to wear it on your own.”

Athadra’s brow drew down. “What do you propose?”

“Are you familiar with the Tevinter ludi?” The Sten ducked to pass under the raised grate and into the castle’s bailey.

“The gladiator schools, aye,” Athadra said, warily. “Slaves were trained to fight and die in the arenas, for the amusement of the people and the power of the magisters.”

The Sten’s smirk returned. “You speak of the past without need.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Athadra shook her head. The Chantry had outlawed slavery, which had perforce closed down the arenas, and even though it was widely known that the schismatic Tevinter Chantry overlooked the resumption of slavery within the Imperium, the so-called Black Divines had always claimed that the arenas were never to see bloodshed again. “Have you seen one of these schools?”

“Two,” said the Sten, but he did not care to elaborate. He paused just short of the stairs to the entrance hall, and cast about. “Meet me there,” he said, pointing to a far tree. “Tomorrow at dawn. I will train you in the ways of the ludus, of the arena.”

The Warden hesitated, uncertain. “I don’t know about this, Sten.”

The Qunari sighed and considered her. “Gladiators are Tevinter slaves. Which peoples form the bulk of slavery in the Imperium?”

The question suddenly made her feel like a child. “Elves,” she replied.

“And elves see the arena, just as humans and the Qunari of the Northern isles do,” he informed her. “Come at the appointed hour. Wear only your smallclothes and a robe if you must. By the solstice, you will be able to walk in your plate unaided, and by First Day, none South of Seheron will stand your equal.”

Athadra nodded, and when the Sten turned to go back the way they’d come, she did not stop him. She knew she should be nervous, given what she’d heard of the gladiators of old, but she could not help feeling a glimmer of excitement for the day to come.


	36. Stenicus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Warden has her first day of training with the Sten, and it proves even more devastating than she'd imagined. Despite Alistair's concerns, she will not be swayed from her course.

Athadra braced herself against the chill as she stepped into the bailey. She wore nothing but a scrap of cloth across her chest and hips, and that was mostly to keep the knights and servants of the castle from fainting. She was surprised to see how proudly her muscles already stood out beneath her skin after four-and-a-half months of running and fighting.

The stone steps were cold on her feet, and her bare flesh sprouted goose pimples almost immediately, but Athadra resisted the urge to heat herself with her mana; she knew the Sten would disapprove of any reliance upon her arcane skills in the days to come. For his part, the Qunari already stood at the chosen place, across the grounds from the stables, wearing no more than she. When she drew closer, she saw that three enormous logs lay at his feet. They’d been cut into long, rough rectangles, each one longer and thicker than the last.

“Been to the f-forest, I see,” she managed to say through her shivers. She noticed the scars his flesh carried, as she’d noted her own earlier in Morrigan’s looking glass, and she felt her respect for him grow.

“You will start with the smallest of them,” he began without preamble. “I will take the largest.” Though he was from the tropical isles of the North, he seemed unaffected by the cold.

“And wh-what am I to do, exac-actly?” Athadra could imagine, but she wanted to hear it from him, first. Rather than speak, however, the Sten crouched beside the biggest hunk of wood. He wrestled it up from the ground and set it on his shoulders, stretching out his arms to take the load. When it balanced, he grunted, forcing himself to stand. “...oh,” she said, her fears confirmed. She suddenly didn’t feel so excited to set to her training.

The Sten looked at her, full of expectation. “We cannot begin,” he said through closed teeth, “until you take up your weight.”

“Begin?” She almost laughed; it would be a miracle if she could pick the smallest log up without magical assistance by First Day, much less the coming solstice. Yet she could not slink from the man’s gaze...she had not run from a challenge since she’d first tasted the tainted blood the previous summer. And, foolish as it was, she wanted the Sten to esteem her as highly as she regarded him.

So, with a great sigh, the elven mage bent to a crouch beside her assigned charge. She could feel the splinters laying in wait, but the freshness of the wood let her get a more decent grip, and she managed to tilt one end off the ground half a foot. With shaking limbs, Athadra raised the dead wood just high enough to slip beneath it. The weight pressed down upon her, spreading from her shoulders to her neck and spine, and she felt the chill of old snow biting her backside.

Then, just like she’d seen the Sten do, Athadra breathed deeply and levered the log properly onto her shoulders. It overbalanced, though, and the end which had first left the ground was the first to return, just as her legs gave way beneath her. Ravens took wing from the walls at the colossal thud which accompanied the fall, and it was all Athadra could do to keep her left arm from being pinned beneath the weight. She was near to collapsing when the Sten sniffed.

“Again,” he said. “Do not fail.”

Rather than falling forward in a shivering mess, or calling upon her mana to soothe her burning nerves, Athadra growled at herself. With little more patience than her instructor, she levered the log up once more and took it upon her shoulders. The splinters found purchase in her skin, and her hot blood soaked into the thirsty wood, but she managed to keep the gods-damned thing aloft. Her stomach muscles screamed at her when she tried to stand, and so she screamed back at them, as well as the crows and the startled-looking guards at the gate. It took three heaves of her legs, but at long last the Warden rose, pressing nearly as much of her will against her magic as against her limbs.

The Sten looked on from beneath his own burden, his expression grim. “Now we can begin,” he said after a pause. “Follow.” He took one heavy step, and then another, before he found some kind of rhythm. Athadra somehow mustered the determination to follow his lead, though she needed three steps for every one of his, so that he was on the other side of a large oak tree before she realized that he was leading her in a circle.

Soon the Warden forgot about the cold, her flesh heated by the furious strain of her efforts. Sweat licked at her flanks and dripped from her knees by the second circuit around the tree.

“Shift the weight,” came the Sten’s voice from close behind her. “Watch me after I pass.” His own breath steamed about his face, she saw once he’d taken another few steps, and her eyes fixed on his massive shoulders when he fell into the line their feet had beaten. Fissures crisscrossed his blue-bronze shoulder blades, and Athadra could nearly hear the crack of the whip which had caused them. Her own shoulders shook, but she could not tell whether it was out of sympathy or sheer exhaustion. Nevertheless, the Qunari’s shoulders moved gracefully, and the Warden realized that he was twisting the log so that the ends carved circles of their own in the air. “Do it,” he reiterated, and Athadra flinched.

Agony reacquainted itself with the elf when she tried to copy the motion, and she dare not budge her burden too far, lest it fall from her shoulders once more. Every breath came with jagged effort. Tears as well as sweat burned in her eyes, and when she managed to get the log to rock upon its perch, she felt blood weeping down her back. Her eyes caught on the darker blood of the Sten, brought forth by his own splinters, and the temptation was almost too much to bear.

Athadra’s world collapsed into the figure ahead of her, plodding at a steady pace, and she took an absurd pride in herself when she noticed that it had stopped receding into the distance. Panting breaths blended into a low, humming chorus in her ears, and pain became her deepest companion, driving her on as much as it pulled her back. Then, after what might have been a minute or an Age, the Sten halted before her and cast off his bloodied log.

She took that as permission to do the same, and the world opened up around her as soon as the wood tumbled from her shoulders. Her feet shoot with the force of both weights hitting the ground, and a very different pain flooded her from the quicks of her toenails to the roots of her hair. The Warden dare not lay down, for fear that she wouldn’t get up again.

“Food,” was all the Sten said, and he set off toward a side-door that shortcut to the kitchens.

Athadra blinked, and she realized that the sun-disk was nearly to its apex in the Northern sky, behind the veil of wintry clouds. Suddenly her stomach clawed its hunger at her, giving her all the impetus she needed to run after the Qunari. The Sten ordered simple porridge with salt, and told her to take water; Athadra devoured as much as the cook lay before her. She hadn’t been this ravenous since shortly after the Joining.

    “I trust you, kadan,” the Sten ventured eventually. “With my life.”

Athadra nearly choked on her food. “And I you, with mine,” she said, and realized that she meant it.

“Then you must tell me if you succumb to temptation and use your magic. We work from dawn to sundown, and you will be tempted.”

The Warden shuddered. “I’ve been tempted already,” she admitted. “But I think I’ve resisted.”

“You think?” The Sten’s brow arched dangerously.

“You want me to be honest, I’m being honest. With this much blood flowing, it’s hard to tell. But I’m trying not to, I promise.” She shoveled down the last of her fourth bowl of porridge and sat back, only to groan when the Sten stood up.

“I trust you,” he repeated, and he did not speak again until they were in the relative solitude of the bailey once again. “I had thought of the special manacles that your templars use, to suppress your magic, in case you cannot resist...but they do not stymie your special talent, do they?”

Athadra swallowed hard and glanced around, listening hard for anyone who might be listening to them in their turn. Champion or no, she had little doubt that Mother Hannah could convince some templars to come chase down a maleficar, despite the local Chantry’s lack of lyrium...which was likely the only reason the tintops hadn’t reappeared yet. She gave a short shake of her head.

The Sten nodded. “Then I can scourge you, if you give in.”

The Warden’s eyes widened, and she remembered the scars across the man’s back. A breath steadied her. “Very well,” she said, unable to reply any other way.

He moved into position beside his log and signaled for her to do the same. “Begin,” he pronounced, when she’d crouched down.

The log wasn’t any easier to lift the second time, which convinced her that she wasn’t drawing on her mana. The first few minutes seemed to take an eternity, but once she started swiveling the log upon her nettled shoulders, Athadra lost track the flow of time. She worked through the pain and even the mad joy that threatened, reminding her of nothing so much as the battle-madness which could take her in the midst of slaughter, and when the shadows grew longer than the castle’s walls the Sten called a halt to their work.

“Return tomorrow,” he said, after he’d caught his breath. “At the first day of each week, you will begin with the next larger piece of wood. When you have mastered my log, we will take up arms once more.”

Which meant that Athadra had another fourteen days of her circles, at least. “Can I heal meself afterward, then?”

The Sten crossed his arms and looked at her evenly. “I do not know,” he said at last. “You may pursue whichever arts you wish, in the dark hours. But muscles only grow by injury, and if you are overzealous in easing your pain, you may well undo the benefit of our labour.”

The Warden tried to nod, but the muscles in her neck seized, and she hissed. “Right. I’ll have to judge that.” She managed a smile and a smidgen of a bow, and she turned to hobble back to the stairs and up into the castle. She made it all the way to the armour stands before her legs gave out and she went onto one knee. Luckily, for her pride at least, Shale was nowhere to be found, but the Warden’s blood whispered in her ear and her heart sunk.

“Athadra!” Alistair appeared in the doorway to Eamon’s study. His mouth worked wordlessly for a moment as he took in the sight of her, kneeling and bloody and nearly naked as she was. “What’s happened? Are we under attack?”

“No,” she hissed, trying to push herself back onto her feet. She couldn’t quite make it, but before she’d fallen, Athadra felt the other Warden’s arms folding around her. She writhed even as he cradled her, sudden fear looming from deep within her. If her limbs weren’t already spasming she would have struck out against her captor.

“Athadra,” he called again, his voice calmer this time. “Tell me what happened.”

The Warden managed a few deep breaths and calmed the tenor of her instinct. “Training,” she said. “The Sten,” she added, after a breath. “Get stronger.”

“Well, I can see how well that’s working out for you,” Alistair quipped, mounting the stairs to the second floor. “Let’s get you up to bed, and I’ll have a talk with Sten.”

“You will not,” Athadra growled, meeting the man’s gaze ferociously. “I need this.”

Alistair’s expression wavered. “I guess it’s your decision,” he conceded. “Just don’t let it kill you.”

“Trust me,” she said more softly. “And...thank you,” she admitted, once they topped the stairs. “But let me down.” She managed to nod at the other Warden’s unvoiced question, and with obvious reluctance he set her onto her feet. She couldn’t quite stand straight, and she had to grip the wall, but she waved Alistair away to his own room. Then, quite alone, Athadra hobbled down the long corridor to her chosen bedchamber with as much dignity as she could muster.


	37. The Lash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, keeping a bargain might seem worse than breaking it. When Athadra fails to keep her word, however, she must choose between accepting punishment and losing a valued friend. (Trigger warning for blood and violence.)

Pain ruled Athadra’s days and nights through the rest of the week. Together with Morrigan, she’d searched through some of the Chantry’s books that she’d taken as part of her ransom for defending the village. From their study, the two mages had managed to brew up a healing draught which helped her body to re-knit her exhausted muscles more strongly than her body could do on its own, rather than simply undoing the damage she inflicted upon them. It also caused her to sleep without the horrible nightmares which Duncan’s gift had brought. Otherwise, she got her sustenance from water and porridge, and bloody meat in the evenings.

Since the potion worked while she slept and did not use her magic for the strength it helped her acquire, the Sten had no objections. He took every step with her, and offered an encouraging word whenever she fumbled or faltered. By the third day of her odd routine, Alistair and Oghren decided to take up their own exercise across the bailey, though they practiced with the blunted swords and shields that the knights used in their own sparring. Athadra was glad of their presence, though, for they kept any servants or squires from gathering to gape or jeer. Alistair had evidently taken her impassioned plea to heart, for he did not attempt to dissuade her from her course.

The sixth morning came, colder than the last, and Athadra faced the day with grim determination. Only two logs waited for her beside the Sten. The first had reached the top of her head and was nearly as thick as the length of her forearm, whereas her new challenge would crest the Sten’s shoulder; she judged herself barely able to clasp her wrists, were she to wrap her arms around it.

“Are you ready?” The Sten greeted her, as he had done every morning for the past week.

The Warden hesitated, long enough to feel the fresh snow burning into the soles of her feet. Finally she nodded and crouched beside her new log in time with her mentor, who still took to his own more massive burden. To her surprise, she heaved the wood onto her scabbed shoulders nearly as easily as she’d managed the day before, and with effort she fought her way back to her feet. Each step she took sunk the fresh splinters just a little bit deeper into her flesh; soon her back was covered in a thin sheen of dark blood. The scent teased her, whispering for her to succumb, more insistently than ever.

Athadra resisted as valiantly as she could, focusing on the Sten’s back, keeping it a half-dozen paces in front of her. Thankfully his log had shed enough of its splinters by now that his flesh stood dry, and she thought she might be able to make it to their midday meal once more. On her third circuit of the tree, however, the elf misplaced her foot and slipped on an icy rock. The weight above her took its course, and before she could consciously react, she pulled at her shed blood to lock her legs in place.

The brief burst of energy was enough to let her throw off the log, which had likely saved her leg from being shattered, but her eyes widened as she realized what she’d done. The ground shook a second time and the Sten turned to face her.

“What happened?” His frown said that he knew, or at least suspected.

“I...slipped,” Athadra panted, slowly standing upright again. “I didn’t mean to do it,” she said, unable to meet the Qunari’s stony gaze. “It just...came out.”

The Sten grunted, his arms folding over his chest. “You remember what we agreed, kadan?”

Athadra swallowed. “Aye.”

“Do you wish to continue your training?”

Half of her wanted to say yes, while much of the rest of her wanted to end it. She could learn to cope with draining her mana...she’d had to in the first days of her journey, after all. “If I do not, will you remain to see the Archdemon dead?”

It was the Sten’s turn to pause. “No,” he said at last. “I will not watch you die, when you could have set yourself to purpose.”

That tipped the balance of her decision. “Aye, then. Let’s get it over with.” When the Sten swept a hand toward the stables, she knew his intent without having to be told. Athadra nodded and turned, marching across the bailey.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Alistair called, and then he fell down when the dwarf took advantage of his distraction with a solid shield-bash. When the elf did not answer him, though, the taller Warden regained his feet and jogged closer. “What gives?”

Athadra cast him a withering look and kept walking. “You may want to take a break,” she said, curtly, as she made her way into the roofed paddock where Eamon kept his horses.

Alistair followed her in, closely followed by the red-bearded dwarf. “I don’t think I like the sound of that,” he said. “Or the look of _that_.” He nodded to the long, cowhide whip she pulled from the wall.

“Whoa, now, boss,” Oghren butted in. “You sure you know how to handle that thing?”

Athadra looked at the both of them, dressed in padding and borrowed armour to shield themselves against the cold and the blunted edges of one another’s swords. She stood nearly naked, fingers and toes still tingling. “You certainly won’t like what you’re about to see, if you want to stick around. I can’t stop you. But no matter what, don’t interfere...and don’t let anyone else try, either.” Her crimson eyes glittered in the low light. “Got it?”

Alistair’s brow twitched in concern, but he did not challenge her. “Fine,” he said.

Oghren grunted. “Suits me fine, if that’s what you’re into. Saddle up.” He chuckled at himself. “Sorry...been roomin’ with the old Antivan too long.”

Athadra rolled her eyes, suppressing a chuckle of her own, and she went back out into the bailey to face her choice. The brief levity that Oghren had bought her evaporated as she crossed the grounds, and she noticed a flicker of movement from the corner of her eye; a glance at a high window brought her the distant sight of Morrigan turning away, and the Warden felt guilt stab into her belly. She hoped the Wilds-witch could understand that she had to do this.

“Here,” she said, holding out the bullwhip. Behind her, she heard Alistair step forward and start to speak, but Oghren gave him a restraining word, and he stayed back. The Sten took the proffered implement with a nod.

“Remove your strap and lean against the tree.” The Qunari did not waver, but he did not seem to relish the task at hand. “Five should do.”

“Ten,” Athadra said flatly, her mouth drying around the word. When the Sten grudgingly nodded, she limped up to the old oak tree. Garahel padded closer, looking distressed, his eyes darting from the Warden to the Qunari. Athadra knelt beside him and buried her face in his thick neck. “Stay close,” she whispered to him, “and protect the Sten. He is going to hurt me, even though he doesn’t want to.” The mabari growled low in his chest, but Athadra shook her head. “No, boy. I want him to.” She shifted and held the dog’s gaze. “Keep him safe.” Finally he gruffed a small bark and slinked off, equidistant from the both of them.

Athadra stood up. Her fingers fumbled at the knot in the fabric across her chest, but after a moment it came loose, and she looped it about the base of a thick bough high above her head. She gripped the cloth tightly and lay flush against the cold, wrinkled bark of the tree. Goose pimples tightened the skin of her torso.

“Count them out,” the Sten called from further behind her than she’d expected.

The Warden pulled in a lungful of bitter air and held it for three heartbeats before driving most of it away. “One,” she whispered with the last of the breath. An instant later, fire kissed diagonally from her left shoulder across her spine, and her empty lungs wrenched more tightly, managing a pained squeal.

After a few jagged breaths, Athadra judged herself ready. “Two,” she pushed through her gritted teeth, and she couldn’t hold back the scream which tore from her breast. Her feet momentarily left the ground as her arms tightened, dragging her abdomen against the rough bark. That low sting helped to balance the crosscut at her back. The third and fourth blows came in their turn, and her body jerked at the fifth, when the end of the whip curled around her ribs to lick the side of her belly.

“Six,” she called, weakly, after a long moment. It was a small comfort to know that her ordeal was half over...though she couldn’t imagine lasting through it. When the sixth strike failed to materialize, Athadra chanced a look over her shoulder, and she saw that her screams had drawn an audience. Her host and the rest of her company had been politely ignoring her strange antics for the last week, but now Eamon, Ser Perth and a few other of the arl’s knights, Leliana, and Zevran all stood at the foot of the stairs. Even Morrigan and Shale observed from the shadows.

Alistair and Oghren spoke with them all, and though she should have been able to, Athadra couldn’t make out their words. “Let them watch,” she growled to herself, and turned to catch sight of the Sten in the corner of her vision. “Six, I said,” she called as loudly as her ragged vocal chords could allow. She turned back into the tree, and after a heartbeat, she felt the whip’s kiss once more. Blood ran freely down her back and thighs, but she used the pain to overcome the urge to draw upon it.

The Warden’s flesh hummed dully even in between the last three blows, each of which narrowed her senses even further. Touch was the only sense that mattered...she could barely see the bark before her, and she hardly heard herself call for the tenth impact, but she felt the whip’s caress as excruciatingly as though it were the first time.

It took the Sten himself to pry her fingers from around the knotted cloth that she’d used to hold herself up, and Athadra fell against his bare chest. Tears had visited her cheeks during the ordeal, but now a sob took her, and she wrapped her arms as far around the Qunari as they would go. He held her up by her hips, but there was no hint lust in his touch. He merely stood, letting the storm of her tears break against him, without faltering.

When she finally emerged from the safety of his belly, Athadra saw that her audience had reduced to Alistair and Morrigan, who stood mute close by. Garahel leaned lightly against her leg, whining softly, but he quieted when the elf ran her fingers over his neck.

“That is enough, for today,” the Sten said at last. “We will add another day at the end of the week to make up for it. Can you stand?” He held her gaze for a long moment, until she nodded. He slowly released her and turned to resume his own training.

Morrigan pulled Athadra’s arm over her shoulders, and bore as much of the elf’s weight as she could manage. Alistair fell into step on her other side; she didn’t have the strength to bridle when his grip pulled at her arm to help her up the stairs. Neither of them spoke to her on the long trek back to her room. The other Warden left them at the door, and Athadra fell face-first onto her bed, the pain of her wounds slowly leeching into the rest of her body.

“ _Am I to watch you kill yourself_?” Morrigan muttered to herself in Tevene, still in the habit of practicing the tongue in their shared hours. Athadra did not move, but her ears pricked at the sound of clinking glass, and she hissed at the salve that the Wilds-witch spread across her back. “ _It will not speed your healing, beyond the draughts we’ve made_ ,” Morrigan assured her. “But your wounds shall not fester.”

“ _Gratitude_ ,” the Warden breathed, looking back over her shoulder at her companion. “ _...I had no choice_ ,” she grunted through her teeth.

“ _I know_ ,” Morrigan replied. “ _Heart was set_ , _and body could but follow_.” The elf could not read her expression, but in her exhaustion, Athadra thought she saw a glisten of tears upon the other woman’s cheek. “ _Now take drink_ ,” Morrigan insisted, producing another flask of their potion. “ _And leave dream behind_.” Athadra could only obey, and soon enough she welcomed the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second half of this chapter contains a graphic and realistic depiction of the use of a whip. If intentionally inflicting or receiving pain (to the point of bleeding) is upsetting, the reader should consider skipping this chapter.


	38. A Gift From The Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Warden completes the most brutal phase of her training with the Sten, and finally sees her lump of stardust to a forge. She also lends her courage to someone she'd saved from Redcliffe's nightmare.

The Warden took her harsh lesson well, and in the two weeks which followed, she broke open the scabs at her back nearly every day, but not once did she draw upon the blood her wounds offered. Twice more she dropped the middle log, nearly breaking her foot the second time, but Athadra kept at her training. It took her most of the first morning to lift the Sten’s log; he looked on from the tree and watched her struggle, finally granting her a smile when she stood stooped under the great weight.

The bloodied cloth still hung on the tree as a monument to the Warden’s madness, and she hadn’t bothered replacing it. The horror of her wounds was enough to keep most eyes averted whenever she took to the kitchens or her room, though she found that she no longer cared whether strangers’ eyes wandered or if their lips whispered after she’d passed.

The second day after she’d taken up her final weight, a letter from Levi arrived. It was written quite obscurely and gave no hint about the Keep, to the Warden’s surprise. The parchment did mention Mikhael, however, and his interest in working the star-rock they’d recovered just before taking Soldier’s Peak. Athadra dispatched Leliana and Zevran that very evening to fetch the man and the rock back to Redcliffe, and then she thought no more of it for the rest of the week.

Every day was hard-won, but the coming of each evening saw more circuits around the oak tree. She managed twenty-three on the final day, and though her body had not stopped aching in half a month, Athadra felt a rush of pride when the Sten called her to a halt. The earth shook beneath her feet when she cast off her burden for the final time.

“Acceptable,” the Qunari pronounced evenly. Then his lips twitched into a bit of a smile. “Come as you are on the morrow. We will resume sparring in armour in two weeks’ time.”

When morning came, the Sten had replaced Athadra’s log with a pair of wooden swords, matched to a pair of his own. They were much heavier than they looked; each was filled with lead and nearly the weight of her two-handed greatblade, hanging up in her bedchamber. The Sten moved as gracefully as ever, and soon the bailey filled with the music of their practice swords clashing against one another. Each evening saw her body just as beaten as it had been beneath the beams, but Athadra learned to move her larger muscles even more quickly than she had done before.

Nearly a week after commencing her swordcraft, Athadra was surprised one evening, just as the Sten called a halt to their work. A fresh bruise bloomed across her flank from where the Sten had caught her off her guard earlier in the day, and she was fairly certain he’d cracked her ribs, but she swallowed the twinging agony. The surprise came in the form of Leliana and Zevran. The pair led a dark-haired man and Levi’s ass-driven cart through the portcullis, and they came to a halt in the centre of the bailey.

“Still working wonders with your figure, I see,” Zevran quipped...though his eyes did not linger overlong. Possibly because Athadra still wielded one of her swords, wooden as it was.

The Warden turned her attention to their new companion. “Mikhael Dryden?” She tilted her head, trying to find a resemblance to the slighter, flaxen-haired Levi.

The man stepped forward; if he was shocked that the object of his brother’s praise was nearly naked and covered in bruises and scrapes, he did not show it. “I am he,” he offered. “My brother took up the family business, and has grown fat with the largesse of trade. I chose the hard life of metal and stone.”

“So I hear,” Athadra replied, and turned to replace her swords amongst the roots of the oak tree. That managed to draw a small gasp from Mikhael, though he’d composed himself by the time she faced him once more. “Did you bring the rock?”

“Indeed,” Mikhael said. “It is star-metal, I’ll swear by it. If you’ll give me the honour, I can make for you a thing of wonder...as long as you have access to a forge.” He looked about the darkening space, as though expecting a furnace and anvil to spring forth from the castle’s walls.

“There’s a smith in the village, called Owen. It’s a bit of a trek down the hill, but I’ll ask Shale to carry the ore down, to save your ass the trouble.”

“My thanks, Commander.” Mikhael scratched his beard, looking from the Warden to the lump in his cart. Athadra was pleased that her companions had spread her new title to the Drydens. The smith spoke up again. “I believe there is enough metal in the ore to make a decent longsword and a dagger, or a single greatblade.”

Athadra sidled over to the cart. The rock rested beneath oilcloth, but she felt the odd, lyrium-like tingle coming off of it just the same.  “Use it all in a single sword,” she told him.

“Commander,” he answered with a nod, and he waited as she took the steps back up to the castle.

The Warden limped back up to her room, telling Shale to anticipate her return. The chamber stood empty, as it had more frequently of an evening since Athadra had taken up the practice swords; Athadra did not begrudge Morrigan her own pursuits, as long as the Wilds-witch found her way back into their bed. The Warden searched through her nightstand until she found the old clothes Duncan had procured from Aethelbert, a whole five months before.

The scabs at Athadra’s back were solid enough to take the tunic’s weight, and her thicker leg muscles filled out the trousers more fully, though she didn’t bother with her boots, and so her legs remained naked from halfway down her shins. She strapped on her belt with Duncan’s daggers holstered, and went back to find the mouthy golem.

“Your flesh has proven pervious to the cold at last?” Shale rumbled a chuckle when Athadra approached in her garb.

“Hardly,” Athadra shot back with a wink. “I’ll be stark again amorn, you wait.” She gestured for the golem to follow, and made her way out of the great double-doors of the castle’s entrance hall. The Sten had quit the bailey in her absence, but she looked forward to seeing him in the morning. Leliana and the Antivan had got themselves lost, as well. “Got a job for us, if you’re amenable.”

Shale groaned when she saw the familiar cart and donkey. “You need me to haul the stone again,” she said in an accusatory grumble. “I know it.”

“I also want you to scare the birds,” Athadra offered. “They’ve not had a proper fright ‘round these parts since half the village rose from the dead to eat the other half.”

The golem laughed. “We mustn’t let them grow complacent!” She clapped her hands, which dislodged a few ravens from the walls. “Very well. Lead on.”

Mikhael looked the golem up and down, curiosity firing in his eyes for the first time that Athadra had seen. “You are small for a stone-man,” he said. “And you can talk.”

“Did it say something?” Shale asked Athadra.

“Thinks you’re tiny and lippy,” the Warden answered. “Should I tell it that you’re a stone woman?”

“Best not,” Shale advised. “We might break its soggy little head.”

Their banter did not seem to dampen the smith’s curiosity. “I did not mean to offend. I have seen but one of your kind, and it had no will of its own.”

Shale’s eye-gems glimmered in the low light of the evening. “And was this arrangement agreeable to you?”

“I confess, I thought nothing of it...but now that I know you can have will, I find it disturbing.” That answer seemed the correct one, and Mikhael’s head remained uncrushed.

“Let us see the stone,” Shale said, “and be off.” When the smith drew back the oilcloth covering the rock, Athadra saw the glowing veins in it. Shale hefted it with just a little difficulty and brought it up to her shoulder. “I do not see how you will be able to melt it down without driving yourself to madness,” she commented as the three crossed beneath the portcullis, with Garahel not far behind.

“I have learned with the best smiths Ferelden has to offer, human and dwarven,” Mikhael boasted. “I may lack the stout folk’s resistance to lyrium, but I can make do.” He shrugged his shoulder, jostling the sackful of supplies he’d taken from the cart.

Athadra took note of her tavern as they passed it; she’d have to pay Bella a visit, sooner or later. Not long after, she indicated the smith’s house. Despite the near-darkness, she could see smoke still rising from the smithy.

“Just wait a bleedin’ minute,” came the muffled reply to her knock. Almost a full minute later the door swung inward. “What in Andraste’s holy name do you...oh,” the man stopped short. Owen’s eyes widened when he recognized Athadra, and he threw himself into a low bow. “Champion! My Valena still talks about how you saved her from the monsters!”

The Warden shrugged, a bit embarrassed at the man’s deference. “It were my job,” she said simply, though in truth she’d sent the girl back the way her party had come, to pick over the re-dead corpses on her own. “Can I parlay that offer you made me into forging a sword, instead of an armour set?”

“Of course, Champion,” Owen answered at once. “I was just workin’ on a sword for Ser Lann, but I can make it for you, instead. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

Athadra shook her head. “I’ve got me the ore here, and a man who’s going to help work it. It could be dangerous to handle.”

Owen looked at her companions a bit defensively. “And what’s so special about this ore, then?”

Mikhael stepped forward into the light cast by Owen’s forge. “It’s star-metal,” he said heavily.

The older smith’s mouth fell open. “You sure?”

“I am Mikhael Dryden, master Owen,” Mikhael informed him. “I’ve trained with Gerrick the One-Eyed. It would be an honour to work at your anvil to craft a blade for the Commander of the Grey.”

The name, meaningless to Shale and Athadra, seemed to sweep away Owen’s qualms. Instead he moved out of the doorway and gestured for them to come in after him. Shale fit through, but only just. “I’ll put Lenn’s order aside,” Owen assured them. “We should start working tonight, if we want to get the metal out of the rock.”

Mikhael donned a thick pair of dragonhide gloves which covered him up to the elbows, just as Owen moved a special cauldron into position on the forge. The bowl could take as much heat as the furnace could give off, and it had a thick grate on top. Mikhael helped Shale wrestle the ore into position over the grate, and Owen set to work on the bellows. The man whistled at the blue-green streaks in the rock.

“We’ll have to go slowly,” Mikhael told Athadra. “The metal in the ore could melt easily, or it could be stubborn. Too hot too soon, and it will seal itself inside the rock.”

“We want to avoid that, I take it,” Athadra commented.

Just as Mikhael nodded, the Warden heard a gasp from the other side of the smithy. Valena stood in a doorway which connected the forge-room to the rest of Owen’s house. “Champion! I knew you’d come to see me!”

Athadra suppressed a sigh, but Owen came to her rescue. “Now, now, Valena,” he said as he worked the heat up. “The Champion’s been doin’ important work with good Arl Eamon. She’s come ‘ere for a sword to keep that work up.”

Valena’s face fell as she took in the crowd. “Oh,” she mumbled. “Of course.”

Athadra saw tears threaten, and she silently cursed to herself. “I did think about you,” she lied. “And I’m glad I helped you get out of the castle.” She stepped closer, away from the noise of the others. “Have you been back inside, since?”

Valena ushered her into their small sitting-room. “No,” she said a bit hollowly. “I can’t stop seeing...them...”

“They’re gone,” Athadra said. “Dead and burnt, proper. Now the inside’s as good as it ever were.”

Valena bit her lip and shuddered. “How are you so brave? I’d bet you don’t even have nightmares.”

The Warden’s brow cocked. “I do,” she assured the girl, who was likely as old as she was, in truth. “I wake up screaming, sometimes.” She didn’t trust herself to tell the other woman any more.

That gave Valena pause, but then she shook her head. “Then you’re even braver than I thought,” she insisted.

Athadra nodded. “Maybe,” she said. “I’ve seen and done things I never thought I could. But you made it back on your own, Valena.”

“But I was so scared...”

Athadra barked a laugh. “So were I. Every step. I just had a sword in my hands, is all that made me different to you.” She looked directly into the girl’s eyes. “You should go back to the castle, if you ever want to sleep sweet again.”

The thought clearly distressed the smith’s daughter. “But...but my lady is...gone. I’ve got no reason to go, now.”

“The arl needs more knights,” Athadra pointed out. “You could take to squire. Eamon owes your father that much.”

“But I’m a woman!” Valena’s eyes had grown wider than Athadra thought safe.

The Warden’s head tilted. “Aye,” she said. “So am I. So were a fair few of King Cailan’s troops at Ostagar.”

“But...” The girl’s lip trembled, and Athadra reached up to place a steadying hand on her shoulder.

“Look,” the elf said. “It’s just something to consider. But you can serve your arling, your country, and yourself if you decide to take up arms. Talk it over with your father.”

Valena took a deep breath and nodded. “I will,” she promised. “Talk to him, at least.” She bit her lip and managed a small smile. “Thank you, Champion.”

Athadra nodded, and returned to the smithy, sighing at the pleasant heat on her bare toes. “How’s she look?”

Mikhael truly smiled for the first time that the Warden had seen. “Splendidly,” he said. “We should be able to get enough metal out tonight. And then...three days, I’d say. What do you think?” He directed the question at the older smith, who combed his beard and nodded.

“Three or four, to temper it proper.”

Athadra grinned. “I’ll see you both in a couple of days, then. I learned a few things from a smith of my own that might come in useful while you’re hammering. For now, I’ve got someone I need to see.” She nodded and turned out into the cool night, with Shale and Garahel to either side. Not even the sight of the Chantry, bereft of templars as it was, could dampen her spirits as she climbed the hill to her hard-won tavern.


	39. Imperfect Circle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wardens finally make their way to the Circle Tower to recruit its inhabitants to the struggle against the Blight, but when they arrive, they find that Teyrn Loghain's touch has threatened to spoil their efforts yet again. Without much choice, Athadra must fight to defend the place which stole her adolescence, her innocence, and very nearly her life...or else surrender her fellow mages to the piety of Knight-Commander Greagoir.

“ _I have a thought_ ,” Morrigan mused to the canopy of their small, private cabin, while Athadra trailed a line of kisses over her shoulder. They spoke Elvish this night.

“ _Mmmhm_?” The Warden asked, soaking in every minute beside her companion. It was their first night on Lake Calenhad, and they drew inexorably toward the Circle Tower to the North. The captain guessed it would take another night and part of the next day, which suited her fine. It had been three blessed days since the end of her training with the Sten, and she had spent the better part of all of them showing the Wilds-witch just how dearly she’d been missed in those long daylight hours.

Morrigan leaned into Athadra’s touch, her breath catching for a moment. “ _Mother occasionally spoke to me of her grimoire_ ,” she said at last. “ _She claimed it taken by a templar, long before I was born_.”

Athadra shifted on their cot, tilting her head up. “ _He must have been very lucky, or very stupid_.”

“ _He was both, as well as handsome_ ,” Morrigan said with a slight grin. “ _Or so I like to think. In any case, Flemeth’s tome contained all of her most powerful spells, accrued over the centuries. She was certain that it resided in the tower, where your Circle now stands_.”

“ _It ain’t my Circle any longer_ ,” Athadra hastened to point out. “ _And it won’t be again_.” She’d promised herself that before boarding the boat, accompanied by her own companions and a complement of Eamon’s knights, led by Ser Perth. The knights numbered eleven, bringing her total strength to twenty...though none of them, not even Alistair or Shale, could stand against her now...especially since she wielded Starfang. The sword was the product of Mikhael and Owen’s labours, with a touch of the lessons she’d learned from Garin Garinson for good measure.

It was the most beautiful sword Athadra had ever seen, the metal of the blade shot through with blue-green veins which faintly glowed in darkness. It took both hands to wield, but was lighter and even stronger than Ageless, which she’d given to Oghren. The first time her fingers touched the hilt, just over a week before, Athadra felt her magic sing more loudly than the first time she’d handled a Circle staff. With the Sten’s training, she would be able to fight under her own power, and wield her magic properly once again.

“ _Be that as it may_ ,” Morrigan said, bringing Athadra from her reverie. “ _It is black, with a silver, leafless tree pressed into the cover. If we get a chance, ‘twould be a fine idea to seek the grimoire out. It has secrets Flemeth does not wish me to know, after all_.”

Athadra’s lips curved mischievously. “ _You’ve convinced me_ ,” she said. “ _But if they catch us poking around and try to give us the brand, I’m holding you responsible_.”

Morrigan cackled. “ _And will you give out punishment as harshly as you receive it_?” Her finger traced one of the elf’s fresh scars, which still shone silvery pink across her back.

Athadra hissed, not entirely unpleasantly, and arched back into the other woman’s touch.  “ _Oh, much more so_ ,” she warned in a low tone, and her own fingers tangled in the roots of Morrigan’s hair. “ _Shall I demonstrate_?”

“ _I insist_ ,” said the Wilds-witch, her long fingernails prickling over the elf’s uneven flesh. Athadra grew grateful for the thick wooden walls before the night was through, even though she suspected some of the knights’ dreams became a bit more interesting as it wore on.

Night bled slowly into the next day, and the galley continued its course across the frigid water. The wind was against them, so the warriors had to row nearly every foot of the way. Athadra even took a turn at the oars, to show the men who followed her that the Champion could work as well as fight. Despite the conditions, the captain’s prediction proved too pessimistic; they reached the lake’s Northern isles by midafternoon, and the Circle Tower itself came into view as the last rays of the sun passed over the Frostbacks, to the West.

Sun-runes lit the upper floors, which were the only ones with windows, lest the mages attempt escape. It took awhile for Athadra to notice the lack of torchlight augmenting the faint glow, and her brow drew down when no templars materialized to greet the ship. “Odd,” she remarked. “No welcome party.” There was an occasional flash of light from the very top of the tower, which housed the Harrowing Chamber, and the Warden’s blood whispered oddly.

“Mayhap they aren’t used t’ visitors,” the captain suggested. “We’ll just have t’ debark ourselves.” He gave the order, and the ship’s crew scrambled to prepare the galley for docking. Athadra retreated to her cabin to don her armour; she’d shirked it thus far on the journey, mindful of Duncan’s warning when last she’d crossed the lake. She wasn’t about to face the templars without steel in her hands and upon her back, however, and so she took her chances.

The Sten was the first off of the galley beside her, Asala and Starfang held at the ready. “Something's wrong,” Athadra warned. “On your guard.” The command was echoed by Ser Perth, and soon the air thrummed with the hiss of unsheathing steel.

The Warden’s stomach tightened when she saw the massive metal doors from the outside, for just the third time in her life. Gathering her nerve, Athadra stepped up to the threshold and knocked against the iron with Starfang’s bronze pommel. Even that light touch shifted the door more than an inch, which told her that it stood unguarded on the other side. Confused, Athadra pushed both doors inward, aided by the Imperially-crafted hinges. She stopped short when the doors parted enough to reveal the scene within. A mere half-dozen templars stood in the expansive entrance hall, with a few more strewn over the floor, nursing wounds or praying.

“Athadra!” The voice brought back a decade’s worth of memories, and the elf’s crimson eyes snapped onto the towering figure of Knight-Commander Greagoir. He stood in the centre of the room, gripping his left arm absently, surprise etched on every line of his face. “What are you doing here?”

Athadra stepped forward, the Sten and Alistair at her flanks, and the rest of her enlarged company fanned out in the hall behind her. “I am the Commander of the Grey in Ferelden,” she informed him. Her voice shook a bit more than she’d have liked, but she swallowed and lowered her swordpoint. “Here to secure the Circle’s assistance against the Blight.”

Shock turned to incredulity in the Knight-Commander’s expression, and then to open mirth. A laugh burst from his lips and he shook his head. “The Grey Wardens are finished. Much like this Circle.” He looked to his left, at the second set of double doors which now blocked the way to the novices’ quarters. They were only shut under the direst of circumstances. “The tower has been taken.”

“What do you mean,” Alistair spoke up. “Taken how?”

Greagoir’s eyes widened. “Were you not trained as a templar, boy?” He laughed again, which made it the second laugh Athadra had ever heard from him. “Abominations and demons stalk the halls, corrupting and killing at will. We are all that’s left.”

“You mean there are still templars inside?” Alistair didn’t seem to find the situation so funny, which was another rarity.

The Knight-Commander frowned and shook his head. “If any yet live, I do not envy them. I gathered as many as I could when Uldred’s deceit showed itself, but it has been days.” The man heaved a sigh. “It doesn’t matter, now. We’ll receive word from Denerim, soon enough.”

Athadra’s eyes widened. “You can’t!” Starfang’s point rose once more, as though of its own accord. “I need those mages.” The timidity in her voice had gone, now, replaced by a low-burning rage.

Ser Perth came up beside her. “What is happening? What does the capitol have to do with this?”

“Nothing,” Athadra said, “except that’s where the Grand Cleric lives. The Knight-Commander has declared the Circle of Magi in Ferelden beyond saving, and called for the Right of Annulment.” The words tasted like ash in her mouth. “He means to raze the tower.”

“Brick by brick, if need be,” Greagoir confirmed. “You and the other apostate along with it, if you’re here when the force arrives.” His eyes flicked to Morrigan and back.

The Warden slowly leveled her sword until it rested a hand’s breadth from the man’s neck. “Not before I take your head off, tin-top.”

Faced with an armed mage at the head of a small army, the Knight-Commander still scoffed as though she were a novice. “And what will that accomplish? My death will not save this Circle.” He leaned forward, just short of touching metal to flesh. “Get it over with, if that is what you wish.” The able-bodied templars, all helmeted, gathered behind their Knight-Commander.

“I won’t give you the satisfaction,” Athadra said at last, taking a step back. “I forged this sword to strike against the darkspawn. You haven’t earned the right to spill blood upon it.” She looked at the far doors, bolted and buttressed by a pair of templars wedged against them. “There could well be survivors in there, and I have need of them. There are worse things in this world than demons, Knight-Commander.” She looked into the man’s eyes, consciously echoing Duncan’s words. “You know that.”

Greagoir grimaced, but could not argue. He looked at the swords gathered to her cause. “If you are intent on entering the tower, I cannot stop you. But you should all know that when those doors close behind you, they will not open again until I hear from the First Enchanter himself that it is safe to do so.” A smile played across his lips. “And if Irving has been killed, the tower will remain sealed until every templar east of the lake has gathered to bring it down.”

Athadra could hear the whispers racing through the Redcliffe knights, and she knew she could not count on them in a fight against such a force. She turned to Ser Perth. “Keep your men here, and remind them of their oath to their arl.” They’d all sworn to see their Champion back to Redcliffe, even if it meant coming to blows with the templars. “Alistair,” she called.

“I’m not going to like this, am I?” He still sounded grim, but the taller Warden managed a single chuckle.

The Warden shook her head. “I need you and Leliana to stay here. Shale and Oghren, too.” She shot a glance at Greagoir. “You’re the prince, or as good as, and a Grey Warden to boot. If the rest of us can’t make it out in time, you’ll need to settle accounts with Loghain and the Archdemon on your own.”

Alistair grimaced, but he did not argue. “Go, then. You just make sure you make it back, Athadra,” he warned her. He nodded at her. “I’ll be waiting.”

Morrigan, the Sten, and Zevran fell into line beside her, with Garahel to round them out. Greagoir made the command, and the doors into the tower proper were propped open just enough to let them filter through. As soon as the Antivan had crossed the threshold, the templars sealed the doors behind them.

“Well,” Athadra said, as they started down the familiar corridor. “At least we’ll be able to look for that book of yours, Morrigan.”

The Wilds-witch laughed. “As well as kill a few stray templars, I’ll wager. Unless the assassin objects.”

Zevran sighed. “I will have to pray for forgiveness for every one who falls, I suppose. Once I’ve prayed for my other victims. It should only take a decade or two, if I start tonight.”

Their banter carried them through the deserted novices’ chambers, but Athadra could sense magic in the room at the end of the corridor. She edged toward the open doorway, redoubling her grip on Starfang’s hilt, and stepped into the room.

“Miss Athadra?” An older boy’s voice creaked from amongst a small clutch of children, guarded by terrified-looking novices. His call raised the attention of the few enchanters in the room, who all turned to their guests with staves at the ready.

The Warden dropped her swordpoint in a gesture of peace. “I’m here to help,” she called, before her eyes caught on the boy who’d first spoken her name. At first she’d thought he must have known of her from her own time as a novice, but a second look nearly made her drop her sword. “Connor?”


	40. Retribution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Warden's party, augmented by yet another companion, sweeps through the first two floors of the Circle Tower. They face demons and blood mages and possessed templars, but Athadra is surprised when two more creatures from her past reappear in her life. She makes sure that neither have the power to surprise her again, however.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter involves the death of one of the Origins companions, as well as a fairly graphic castration scene toward the end. Consider this a trigger warning for both.

“The two of you know each other?” The old woman stood near a humming, blue barrier she’d placed at the far doorway, which provided them a modicum of security. Athadra recognized her as a Senior Enchanter--the only one in the room--and the Warden remembered avoiding the woman at Ostagar.

The boy looked to speak, but Athadra cut him off. “I met him a time or two in Redcliffe, after I cleaned up Jowan’s mess.” As much as it pained her, she had a nagging hunch to keep Eamon’s son from facing too many awkward questions.

The name caused the Senior Enchanter to grimace. “Jowan,” she spat. “He’s behind this. I just know it.”

That got the Warden’s attention. “What do you mean? Isn’t he in Aonar, or dead?” Her brow drew down. “Greagoir mentioned Uldred.”

“Uldred is a good man,” the old woman said, a bit haughtily. “Or at least he was...before Ostagar. Since then, he’s been consumed with his Fraternity.” She spoke of the quasi-political associations which Harrowed mages could participate in, to advocate their interests within the Circle. “He was ever a Libertarian, but since the battle, his ambition consumed him.”

“And how does Jowan figure into it?”

The Senior Enchanter sighed. “Uldred spoke to him while he was imprisoned here, and that’s when he began moving in earnest. Last week, he called a meeting of the Senior Enchanters to convince them to separate from the Circle. He promised Teyrn Loghain’s support, in return for the mages’ aid in the troubles.”

Athadra recalled Loghain requesting words with the man, just before the battle. She shook her head. “Didn’t turn out so well for him, did it?”

“He nearly carried the day,” the old woman admitted. “If I had not spoken out against the teyrn’s bad faith, and the prospect of his future treachery, I fear we would already have been lost.” She laughed. “Not that my efforts saved anything. When the vote failed to pass, Uldred went mad. Greagoir and I managed to escape, but his templars sealed the doors before I could gather the children and escape.” The woman shook her head. “He’s called for the Right, hasn’t he?”

A gasp tore through the novices when Athadra nodded.

Beside her, Morrigan scoffed. “ _Little more than they deserve_ ,” she breathed in Elvish. “ _They allow themselves to be caged, mindless_.”

“ _You could be one of them_ ,” Athadra replied in kind. “ _But for your mother’s care_.” She didn’t dare use any of Flemeth’s names, lest the Senior Enchanter or any of the younger mages recognize it.

“ _I would have thrown myself from the top of the tower years ago_ ,” Morrigan insisted. “ _Better death than this prison_.”

The Warden glanced up at the Wilds-witch. “ _Should I have done thus, then_?” She’d considered it, honestly, but she’d only seen the tower’s windows on the way up to her Harrowing and the day after.

Morrigan paused. “ _No_ ,” she admitted, and spoke no more.

Athadra returned to the Senior Enchanter. “I saw you at Ostagar, but I don’t know you.”

“I am Wynne,” the woman said. “You were once a mage of this Circle, Athadra. Do you mean to save it?”

“You may call me the Commander of the Grey,” Athadra informed her. “And I mean to end the Blight. I’ll need magic to do that.”

Wynne nodded. “That comes to the same end. What do you propose?”

“Greagoir waits for Irving’s word that the tower is secure. Does the First Enchanter yet live?”

The Senior Enchanter shrugged. “He did, when last I saw him, but if he still breathes he is Uldred’s prisoner, at the top of the tower.”

Athadra nodded and turned to her companions. “If anything doesn’t look human, kill it. If anything that looks human tries to bargain with you, kill it. Do not listen to anything anyone says. Understand?” The Sten and the Antivan both nodded, and they all re-drew their weapons.

“I’m coming with you,” Wynne said, from behind her. “This is my home--I cannot sit by and watch it fall to ruin.”

One of the apprentices spoke up. “Are you sure, Wynne? You seemed so weak before...”

Athadra rounded on the pair of mages, and she saw Wynne’s expression spasm for a second before smoothing. “I had a...moment of weakness,” the Senior Enchanter said. “I’m fine now, Petra. You and Kinnon should stay here and watch over the children.” The younger woman nodded and warned Wynne to be safe.

The Warden’s brow drew down, but she didn’t comment on the exchange. “I can’t stop you,” she allowed. “Just don’t get in me way.”

Wynne nodded and stepped aside from the magical barrier. It flickered and faded. “Let’s go, then, and make sure nothing gets past us which shouldn’t.”

Athadra was the first into the doorway and into the library beyond. Within, she finally had a chance to put her training with the Sten to a proper test, against grotesque Abominations, which rivalled the darkspawn for horror, since their twisted forms had once been men and women before the demons had corrupted them. Starfang cleaved flesh from bone, searing with electricity or burning with heat by turns. The Warden exulted in her renewed spellcasting ability, and she could occasionally free her left hand to call down the wrath of the Fade upon more distant foes even as she engaged in close quarters.

In that way, the party cleared the library and much of the second floor. There were hardly any survivors to be found. They paused only twice; the first time to try and rescue a Tranquil mage named Owain, whom Athadra remembered from her last days in the Circle. He told them of Enchanter Niall’s attempt to take the fight to Uldred with the Litany of Adralla, which could be used to prevent demonic possession if the counter-enchanter were powerful enough.

“Uldred means to possess the Senior Enchanters,” Wynne exclaimed. “We have little time!” At her urging, Athadra moved on, despite Owain’s stubborn insistence that he remained in the stockroom.

The company’s second hesitation came after a battle with a clutch of blood mages. The lone survivor told the tale of Uldred’s whispered promises, of a life of freedom beyond the templars’ unrelenting gaze. Now she just wanted to get out of the tower alive. Wynne was adamant that the woman was dangerous, but Athadra wasn’t so sure. The blood mage had nothing to offer except her pleas, after all.

“Go,” Athadra said. “Take refuge with the novices, and make yourself scarce after the templars open the doors.”

The woman wept and collected herself enough to flee. Athadra made sure she was gone before proceeding through the second floor of the tower. They encountered more demons and a few mages, but none surrendered, much to Athadra’s dismay. She didn’t want to prevent the Right by slaughtering all of the Circle’s Harrowed mages herself.

Just before the party reached the stairs to the third floor, Athadra recognized Irving’s office. She, Morrigan, and Zevran swept through it, taking whatever of value they could carry in their packs. Athadra gasped when she opened a small chest and found the book Morrigan had described to her, and she stuffed it into her pack before Wynne could get a glimpse of it. For her part, the Senior Enchanter only weakly protested the looting with a few stern comments.

The third floor passed similarly to the second. Crazed templars guarded the rooms, and Athadra made sure at least one fell for each of the mages she’d slain. If Wynne noticed the Warden brushing off their anti-magical attacks, or drawing from her health potions a bit more frequently while she avoided the lyrium draughts altogether, the Senior Enchanter did not see fit to comment. For her part, Athadra only used her own blood to power her spells once her mana had been exhausted, at least as long as the old woman could still watch her.

Athadra called a halt just before the stairwell to the fourth floor, to take stock of their injuries and break the hardbread they’d brought from Redcliffe, just in case the treaty negotiations took longer than expected. Wynne had nothing to eat, and Athadra did not offer to share. The Warden even took a drink of a lyrium potion to help replenish her mana, to help cast off any of the Senior Enchanter’s suspicions, if any were present. When they’d recovered their strength, Athadra led them up the long stairs to the tower’s penultimate floor.

The first room they encountered did not surprise them; yet another Desire Demon had some poor templar in its thrall, surrounded by fallen comrades. Something in the demon’s voice made Athadra hesitate, however, as it spoke to the man.

“Yes,” it hissed. “Our love and our family are everything you’ve hoped for. What else could you desire?”

Athadra crossed the threshold; she didn’t recognize the unhelmed templar, and he didn’t notice the Warden at all, absorbed in the demon-worked fantasy. “Have you put the children to bed, my love?”

That voice brought her to a halt, her gut wrenching as though struck. She’d heard the voice before, muffled behind a templar’s helmet at her back. Her fingers went numb, and she hardly noticed the demon’s flinch when her greatblade slipped from her grasp to clatter onto the floor. The templar remained impassive, still ensorcelled.

“What do you want now?” The demon’s voice was far less indulgent than the others had been; the Warden’s attention focused on it, and more recent memories loomed in the back of her mind. She’d encountered this Desire Demon before, as well. The coincidence was almost too much for her to grasp.

“What are you doing here?” A stab of fear completely unrelated to the templar forked through Athadra. “We had a bargain. You were not to follow me.”

That caught Wynne’s attention. “What?!” She backed a few steps away from the Warden and the demon, both.

The Desire Demon chuckled low in her throat. “I never have, sweetling. I always had my eye on the boy. It is you that have followed me.” It slunk closer, a hint of seduction returning to its voice. “Our bargain yet holds, and I would make another, if you were of a mind.”

Athadra bent to take up her sword again, holding her ground. She did not reply, but she did not attack, either.

“Leave me to this man,” the demon went on. “His desire for love and a family will sustain me until the boy is ready. In return, I shall redouble the bargain already struck.”

Athadra considered, ignoring Wynne’s increasingly-desperate warnings. Uldred waited on the next floor above them, after all. But then the templar spoke once more, bringing her back to that day in her cell, just before Duncan could secure her release. She could still taste the fear and hopelessness she’d felt when he’d pushed her face-down onto that low table.

“Don’t be too long,” he called. “The children will want to kiss you goodnight...”

Athadra’s eyes flashed a deeper shade of red. “Sorry,” she hissed. “I got business with this one that needs settling.”

The demon’s eyes widened. “Ahh. That really is too bad.” It gave a look of nearly-perfect sympathy before turning back to the large man. “Help!” She called, in a small voice. “They’ve come for the children!”

“They won’t get past me!” The templar’s eyes cleared somewhat, and fixed on Athadra, though he still appeared not to recognize her.

Athadra reacted instinctively, running her palm up the sharpened edge of her blade. The blood flowed eagerly, and the Warden used it to cast the man in a magical forcefield similar to the barrier Wynne had erected before. As she’d hoped, the man proved incapable of dispelling it.

“What are you doing?” cried Wynne, but she soon had other concerns. The demon did not stand idle; it revivified the dead men, who rose to its defence.

The undead templars proved just as tenacious as Athadra remembered from Redcliffe, and she had to re-cast the forcefield around her prize twice before she’d hacked through the corpses and slain the demon animating them. “When he gets free, hold him,” she panted at the Sten. The Qunari nodded and stood ready. The Warden wiped the blood from her blade and put it up, carefully healing her palm so that no hint of the gash remained.

Wynne hovered by the doorway, her face white. “Explain yourself, Athadra. What did the demon mean?”

A brief scuffle broke out as the Sten subdued the half-mad templar. Athadra looked to ensure that he wouldn’t get free of the Sten’s grasp, and then she turned to Wynne. “Commander,” she corrected. “And the demon meant what it said.” She saw no point in lying, now. “Jowan didn’t summon it at Redcliffe...Connor did. Jowan was only trying to help the boy gain control of his powers.”

“And that demon and this were one and the same?” The Senior Enchanter was near to screaming again.

“Aye,” Athadra said. “Half the bloody village died because of the boy, and his mother. I went into the Fade and confronted it by meself.”

Wynne shook her head. “You should know better than to strike deals with demons, Athadra. They cannot be trusted.”

“Neither can templars,” Athadra growled, drawing one of her daggers. “Aye, I took a deal. So that I never had to be afraid of losing my magic to a tin-top again.” She pointed the blade at the man behind her. “This one wanted a family so badly he didn’t mind how he got one, no matter how many times I said ‘no’. I ain’t letting that happen to me again.”

The Senior Enchanter’s mouth fell open, and her brows knitted. “I...can understand your desire,” she said. “For protection, and even for revenge. But the answer isn’t to become a maleficar, Athadra.”

The dagger swiveled around to face Wynne. “I told you to call me Commander. I’ll not tell you again.”

Behind her, the sound of struggle ceased, and the templar evidently regained his wits. “Wha...where am I?” He mumbled, looking around. Athadra rounded on him, and saw his eyes widen in shock. “You! It...can’t be!”

The Warden’s lips curved at the fear which flashed over his face. “Me, and it can.” She ran a thumb up the flat of her dagger, all the way to the point. “What’s your name, tin-top?”

“D-Drass...” He stuttered. “Please, miss. I’m...sorry. I-”

“Shut up,” the elf breathed. A glance at the Sten got him to clap a hand over the templar’s mouth.

Wynne stepped forward. “What do you intend to do with this man?”

Athadra glanced back at her. “I’m going to make sure he can’t ever get that precious family he wants, before I kill him.”

“You cannot!” The Senior Enchanter moved to place herself between Drass and the Warden, spreading her arms wide. “He is a templar of the Circle. If he has committed a crime, he shall face the Chantry’s justice.”

Athadra laughed at her. “How can you be so bloody _stupid_?” She shook her head. “I ain’t the first he’s had. If he walks from here, I won’t be the last. A thousand mages could accuse him and the Chantry would put him next in line to succeed Greagoir, just to spite us.”

“You do not know that,” Wynne insisted. “Chantry law forbids fraternization between templar and mage. He’ll be punished.”

“He did not fraternize with me!” The elf’s voice echoed through the room, and she took a heavy step toward the old woman. “He Smited me and pinned me down, lifted up my robes, and fucked me bloody. Weren’t none of his fellows come to stop him, no matter how loud I screamed.” Wordlessly, Morrigan and Zevran came to stand beside her, and Garahel growled at her heel.

“The Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter will deal with it, Athadra,” Wynne pleaded. “Don’t do this--” The dagger’s hilt slammed into the Senior Enchanter’s ribs, just beneath her left arm. The force of the blood squirting past the blade told Athadra she’d struck the woman’s heart, and Wynne’s face registered an instant of shock, before slackening. The Warden twisted the blade within her, for good measure.

“I warned you that I wouldn’t tell you again,” said the Warden, just before the woman fell. Blood bubbled from Wynne’s lips as her last breath fled, and Athadra shook her head when she noticed the wisps of blue vapour which rose from the woman’s eyes and mouth. “Hypocrite,” Athadra barked, before turning her gaze on the templar in the Sten’s grip. “Guard the door,” Athadra told the two companions beside her, and she drew closer to her quarry.

Drass struggled mightily, but he could not free his wrists from the Qunari’s left hand, nor manage a coherent word from beneath the Sten’s right. “Shh,” Athadra whispered soothingly. She brought the bloodied dagger to her lips. The copper-salt taste soured on her tongue, but an eerie light danced in her eyes as she watched the templar redouble his efforts to get free. “Now let’s see what’s so special about your cock that you think I couldn’t live without it?”

Without having to be told, the Sten repositioned his charge, forcing the man to sit down on his shins with his legs spread. The Qunari’s violet eyes met Athadra’s crimson gaze. His lips curved into a frown. “You should kill him and be done, kadan. He is worth no more.”

“I feel like being generous,” Athadra breathed, and she knelt in front of the man. She could hear him trying to beg from beneath the Sten’s hand, but she clicked her tongue and shook her head. The Warden cut away the fabric skirt which the templars wore over their grieves. A bit of chainmail and cloth still separated her from her goal, and with Starfang at her back and Duncan’s dagger in her hand, she parted the barriers with little effort. The templar knelt exposed before her at last.

It was a pathetic thing, pink and shrunken by Drass’ terror. “Hard to believe, isn’t it?” She asked, looking up into his tear-filled eyes. “That something so small could cause such pain.” Athadra felt her own cheeks grow wet, but she swallowed the rage that threatened, savouring the sight and smell of the man’s fear. He jolted when her fingers wrapped around his penis and testicles, and he threatened to overcome the Sten’s weight when her grip tightened, his muffled scream a song in the Warden’s ears.

Athadra’s fingers closed until she thought his balls were close to bursting, and she brought the bloodied dagger up slowly, looking into his eyes as metal met flesh. Her grin widened with the rush of fresh, hot blood over her digits, even after Drass went limp in the Sten’s arms. She did not stop until the offending parts had been shorn from the man’s body, and she tossed them away, her grin morphing into a grimace of disgust.

“I’m done,” she pronounced.  She looked over to her dog. “Could you do the honours, Garahel?”

The Sten stood up as Garahel lunged, his jaws fastening around the unconscious man’s throat. When the mabari was finished, there was no doubt that Drass would not rise again, short of another demon.

“ _Now_ I’m glad we came,” Athadra told Morrigan as she stepped over the old woman’s fresh corpse, blood still dripping from her hand.


	41. Never Tickle a Sleeping Warden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After dealing with the unfortunate templar, Athadra's slightly-smaller band attempt to make further headway in the Circle Tower. They're stymied by an irksome demon, however, who sends them into the Fade. Possessing a mixture of martial and magical skills lacking in her associates, the Warden must endeavor to free them from their very dreams before all is lost.

The Warden did not make it far from the chamber where both Wynne and Drass had seen their last moments. In the central chamber she confronted another Abomination, which looked to have once been a templar, itself. For some reason Athadra hesitated as it rounded on her.

“My, my,” the creature drawled. “You all seem so eager. What’s your rush?” The air shimmered around him, growing thick and pleasantly warm despite the winter’s chill. “Why don’t you all...rest?”

Garahel whined, woozing on his legs. Morrigan stifled a yawn and tried to speak, but her words never quite formed. The Sten simply blinked over and over, while Zevran fell forward, already snoring. Athadra redoubled her grip on Starfang and managed a step toward the monster, but it waved a crooked finger at her.

“Now, now. You’ve worked so hard. Why can’t you just...take a break? Relax?”

The Warden heard the Sten fall, and suddenly the floor became irresistible. It felt soft when she collapsed upon it, more like a cloud than hard stone. With a sigh, she felt her resistance break, and soft light bathed her as she fell into a deep sleep.

When she woke, or thought she’d woken, she was surrounded by ancient alabaster columns. The air glowed oddly, and as she took to her feet, she saw another familiar figure turn to greet her.

“There you are,” came Duncan’s calm voice. “I was wondering where you’d gone off to.”

Athadra arched a brow and looked around her; Tarimel and Gregor stood at opposite corners of the raised platform which held them. Something seemed odd, though, even as Duncan went on about how marvelous it was that the Blight was over.

“Wait,” the Warden said, fighting to dredge up a memory. Ostagar. Seeing the Fereldan Wardens standing in a circle, and then never seeing them again. “You’re dead,” Athadra said at last, looking back to Duncan.

“Me?” He asked, rhetorically. “I have come close many times, my friend. But the Commander of the Grey in Ferelden isn’t that easy to kill.”

Athadra’s eyes widened and she looked down at herself; she still wore the armour she’d found in the cache at Ostagar, but it was perfectly free of blood. Then she realized. “I’m in the Fade.” Her gaze shot back up, and she breathed a sigh. “And I’m sorry, Duncan,” she said, pulling the Fade-image of Starfang from her back. “But I’m the Commander of the Grey in Ferelden.”

The three spectral Wardens reacted immediately, but the Sten had trained Athadra well, and each of them dissolved before her eyes when her blade struck home. She stood alone on the platform for a moment, before a podium appeared before her. A series of runes materialized on its surface, and though she wasn’t certain, Athadra suspected that they represented locations in the Fade. Her guess was borne out when she traced a path from the glowing rune to the next closest. The air darkened around her, and when it lightened once more, both she and the podium were in a completely different place.

“The demon got you, too, I see,” came a voice from behind her. Athadra turned, ready to draw one of her daggers, but the mage just shrugged at her. “Go ahead and kill me. Tranquility must be better than being stuck in this limbo.”

The Warden paused. “Who are you?”

“I am Niall,” the mage said. “What’s a Grey Warden doing in the Fade?”

Athadra shrugged. “Looking for aid against the darkspawn. What else?”

The man’s eyes widened. “Ahh, yes,” he said. “I’d forgotten there was a Blight on. It feels like I’ve been in this place for...Ages.”

That didn’t sound good. “You were fighting Uldred,” Athadra mentioned. “Remember?”

Niall closed his eyes. “Yes. The Litany. I was so close...” He shook his head with a sigh. “But there’s no use, now. The demon has us, sapping our energy to power this section of the Fade.”

“I know that,” Athadra pointed out. “I were a Harrowed mage...for a day, at least, before they threw me in the dungeon.” In the waking world, one mage could often sense another by the concentration of magic, but in the Fade magic was everywhere and everything.

The other mage tilted his head. “Then you must be...Athadra?” He laughed when she nodded. “The rumours abounded when you made your escape. I’d assumed you were quietly executed, myself.”

“Guess not,” the Warden retorted. “I also think that these islands are warded. Have you defeated the ward here?”

Niall shook his head. “It’s behind that door,” he said, pointing to the spectral doorway far behind her. “I couldn’t figure out how to make it substantial. I’ve just been wandering. It’s no use,” he said again.

It was Athadra’s turn to shake her head. “You know there must be a way out. The Fade has no closed loops.”

“That we know of,” Niall replied. “What do we know of the world beyond the Veil?”

The Warden let out a long, slow breath. “Give up if you want. I’m leaving.”

The enchanter laughed bitterly. “Good luck,” he said.

Athadra walked away without answering, and set about exploring the island. Time held no meaning in the Fade, and distance was hardly ever constant, so she had to concentrate to make sure she didn’t slip into the same referenceless mire that Niall had succumbed to. Eventually she found another mage under attack by a low-level rage demon, which she dispatched without too much difficulty. The mage could reshape himself into a mouse, so he must have been trapped for quite a while. That explained his poor showing against the demon; his injuries from the battle proved too much, and he faded away only a few breaths after passing on the secret of his shape.

The Warden worked her way back to Niall and the podium, and instead of stewing, she transported herself to another notch in the Sloth Demon’s webwork patch of the Fade. The section she landed in was somehow more to her liking than the floating island had been; low, grimy walls surrounded her, and smoke rose from all directions. Athadra was in the Fade’s facsimile of a city under assault by the darkspawn, and she very nearly lost herself in the fantasy. She cut her way through the monsters through the alleyways, hardly noticing that they dissolved when they fell, until she happened upon an insubstantial templar.

That made her recall her mission, and she stopped just short of turning her blade on him when the darkspawn had disappeared from around them. In return, he bestowed her with the ability to become insubstantial as well. She tracked her way back to the runed podium and returned to Niall’s island. He was nowhere to be found nearby, but the Warden could use her new form to pass through the door to the island’s guardian, another Desire Demon. It fought hard, calling a pair of Rage Demons to assist it, but Athadra triumphed in the end.

In this way, she worked her way through the runes of the podium. More than once she had to backtrack, once she’d acquired another astral form to surmount obstacles which the Sloth Demon had lain to keep its victims endlessly wandering as it sapped the life from them. Along the way, she found the dreams of each of her companions in their turn.

Zevran’s past as an Antivan Crow must have haunted him, for he lay upon a rack, tormented by someone he evidently knew. When Athadra issued a challenge, the Antivan could not rise to aid her; even after the demon and its minions had evaporated, Zevran refused to open his eyes. A moment later he, too, disappeared.

The Sten enjoyed the fantasy that the Qunari under his command still lived. Four of his kind sat with him; each of them was at least a head taller than he, and they all had a pair of horns sweeping back from the corners of their silver hair, but they paid their Sten obvious deference. When Athadra approached, one of them waved her away.

“Do not disturb the Sten,” the phantasm ordered.

Athadra looked at her companion. “You there?”

His violet eyes met hers, and he nodded. “ _Parshaara_ ,” he sighed. “I know my _karashoka_ do not breathe.” He stood and bowed to his men. They sat confused until the Sten drew Asala. Then the other Qunari turned into shades before their eyes. Athadra managed to take one by surprise, while the Sten held his own against two, and before too long the field stood empty. The Sten grunted and dissolved, leaving Athadra quite alone.

Garahel was tormented by winged steaks, flying just out of his reach. No demons appeared when Athadra approached him, but he whined hungrily nonetheless. “Sorry, boy,” she called. “I promise I’ll get you a nice raw hunk of meat as soon as we get out of this.” With that, the mabari faded away as well.

Morrigan stood arguing with a poor imitation of her mother. The Fade-Flemeth kept insisting that she was worried about her poor daughter, while the Wilds-witch scoffed.

“The miscreant spirit cannot even read our minds properly,” she complained. “Where have you been?”

“Busy,” Athadra replied. “You?” She was surprised that Morrigan hadn’t already defeated her ward.

“I knew you would come,” the Wilds-witch replied. “It would not do to have us both searching in vain.”

“Bah,” spat the vision of Flemeth. “I should teach you both to respect your elders!”

“Parshaara,” Athadra called, smirking at herself. Morrigan froze the spirit and the Warden took off its head; they dealt with a clutch of skeletons without too much difficulty, as well.

“It appears I’m being called elsewhere,” Morrigan said impatiently, as she lost her substance as well.

Now all of the podium’s runes glowed brightly, and each inner rune connected to a circle in the very centre of the stone. Steadying herself with a breath, Athadra ran a finger across the circle, and she wasn’t surprised to see the Sloth Demon waiting for her when the darkness lifted. It showed its true form, a gaunt corpse-like figure outfitted in fine robes that showed its skeletal ribs.

“Let me try again,” it insisted in its slow drawl. “I’ll make new dreams for all of you. You’ll be much...happier.”

Athadra looked around, suddenly surrounded by her companions. Even Niall cowered in the distance behind them. She turned back to the demon, and gave her answer by transforming herself into the form of a massive stone golem.

“Fine,” the demon sighed. “The hard way. If you...insist.” It glowed a deep red, and took the shape of an even larger ogre. The Fade shook around them in all directions when they came together. Athadra’s stony hands gripped the ogre’s horns, and she gave the beast a strong headbutt. It recovered quickly, however, and landed a punch directly at the transformed Warden’s broad chest.

She stumbled backward, nearly crushing Zevran. “A little help?” Her voice thundered deeply, and she looked at her astonished party. Athadra transformed back into her normal, elven self, which helped her friends gather themselves.

The demon remained in darkspawn form, which suited the Warden fine. She and the Sten danced around it while Morrigan rained spells and the assassin feathered the beast with arrows. When the demon seemed close to falling, it forced them back with a sudden burst of energy and transformed into a fount of living magma, taking the form of a Rage Demon, refreshed and ready to rejoin battle.

Athadra recalled the piece of the Fade which consisted of two floors of the Circle Tower engulfed in flames, and she took the shape she’d used to pass that section--a burning skeleton, immune to fire. Her companions didn’t let their surprise keep them from renewing the fight, either. Evidently Athadra had cut through all of the demon’s allies, for though he was powerful enough, none came to his aid. Twice more he glowed red, and twice more he took a new form, each more difficult to face than the last. By the time the skeletal body of the demon’s true form emerged, Athadra felt like taking him up on his offer. Somehow they all persevered, though, and at long last the Sloth Demon lay dead in the centre of its domain.

“You did it,” Niall said from behind them, once he’d come out from his hiding place. “I don’t know how, but you did it!”

“No thanks to you,” Athadra pointed out.

At least the mage had the sense to look abashed. “You’re so much stronger and braver than I am,” he mumbled. “I don’t know what I was thinking, going after the Litany…”

Morrigan laughed. “You were being foolish.”

“Perhaps,” Niall conceded. “I remember once that my mother told me I would do great things, before the templars came for me. I suppose I was trying to live up to her prediction, at last.”

“And it’s killed you,” Athadra said, regretfully. He’d been under the Sloth Demon’s power for more than a day in the waking world, his life used to power the dreams that had enthralled all of them. “I were too late.”

“That isn’t your fault,” Niall insisted, even as his voice grew weaker. “Take the Litany of Adralla from…from my body, when you wake. Use it to stop Uldred, if you can…”

The Warden nodded. “I will.” A moment later, nothing stood before her, and the sky grew dark all around them a heartbeat after that.


	42. The Price of Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Warden and her allies continue their sweep through the Circle Tower, finally securing it against Uldred's folly. Athadra also manages to extract a few concessions from her service, over and above the Circle's obligations to the Grey Wardens.

It was still dark outside, at least according to the narrow windows, which meant that the party’s detour into the Fade had likely taken less than an hour in the waking world. The Sloth Abomination lay lifeless, next to Niall’s body. Athadra found the scroll which contained the spell of the Litany stuffed in the front of Niall’s robes. She stuck it into her pack for safekeeping, and found Flemeth’s grimoire sitting amongst the other loot she’d gathered.

The Warden fished the codex out and handed it to Morrigan. “Found it in Irving’s office,” she said in answer to the witch’s crooked brow. “I didn’t think Wynne needed to see me passing it to you.”

“Ahh,” Morrigan replied. “Well, ‘tis not an issue any longer, clearly.” She took the book and secreted it away as Athadra led the way across the chamber.

The rest of the fourth floor held more blood mages intent on dying, but few surprises until the very end. When the Warden crossed the last threshold before the stairwell which led to the Harrowing Chamber she stumbled sideways, rebuffed by a powerful magical shield at the base of the stairs. Her sword came up and she readied to strike at the barrier before she realized the figure crouching within was a templar, whispering feverishly to himself.

Zevran knocked an arrow and swept the room for anyone else, while Morrigan put out a hand as close to the vibrating energy as she dared. “‘Tis a powerful forcefield, coupled with a magical ward.”

Athadra nodded. “Must be fueled by blood magic, to keep him from dispelling it.” The elf’s voice drew the man’s attention, and when he looked up, Athadra felt like laughing and crying all at once. Within the magical prison knelt the only templar to have shown her kindness; for his affection, Greagoir had chosen him to be the sword at her throat during her Harrowing. He’d have had to kill her if she’d dared to dawdle in the timeless world beyond the Veil.

“Away from me, demon!” The man was mad, rocking and whispering prayers to himself. “In Andraste’s name, begone.” He closed his eyes for a heartbeat and then opened them, looking twice as distressed. “But...that’s always worked before!”

Athadra shook her head. “Cullen,” she breathed. He didn’t seem to hear her, so she repeated his name a bit more loudly.

The templar kept shaking his head. “I will not give in,” he hissed. “No matter how many times you tempt me with my heart’s desire. I know she’s...gone.” A sob welled in Cullen’s throat, and Athadra felt her own tightening.

“The poor boy’s mind is gone,” Morrigan remarked, with uncharacteristic sympathy. “You knew him?”

The Warden nodded slightly. “He were a good one,” she breathed, recalling a time when shared glances seemed the most risky thing she could expect from a tin-top. “He might even think me dead. Greagoir weren’t happy to let me go.”

“She made a mistake,” Cullen said in his hoarse whisper. “But she didn’t deserve...”

Athadra took a step closer to the magical cell. “Cullen,” she said a third time. “Look at me. I don’t want anything from you.”

The templar kept shaking his head for a moment, but then took a second look. Athadra still held her sword at the ready, blood and demonic ichor staining her griffon plate. “...Athadra? Is that really...you?” He looked hopeful and suspicious all at once.

The Warden nodded. “Duncan stole me away before they could send me to Aeonar,” she explained. Her eyebrows knitted and she felt a lump growing in her throat--more than a wall of magic separated them, now. “I’ll get you out of here, Cullen. I promise.”

“Uldred’s had Irving up there for days,” the templar said, a bit more calmly. “The blood mages tortured all of us. I’m all that’s left.”

“He will pay,” Athadra said, nodding to Starfang.

“Kill him,” Cullen implored her. “Kill them all for what they’ve done.” He was near to weeping again.

The Warden frowned, stepping away from the arcane cage. “Any who resist will fall,” she assured him, and then she turned to the stairs. Athadra retrieved the Litany of Adralla and handed it to Morrigan for its use, and with a steeling breath she mounted the steps to kick open the door into the Harrowing Chamber.

Within she saw the half-familiar figure of Uldred, evidently fully human, who stood whispering over an enchanter in Tevene. Athadra stopped short, her friends coming to stand beside her, as the enchanter writhed and twisted before their very eyes into a grotesque Abomination. With his task complete, the bald mage rounded on his new guests, a small smile playing over his lips.

“I see you’ve made it through my acolytes. Pity.” For an instant, his dark eyes flashed yellow, and the broken horror at his feet rose to stand beside him.

Athadra swept the room until her eyes fixed on Irving, lying supine and silent but observing her attentively. Her crimson eyes moved back to Uldred, and her lips mirrored his smile. “I almost want to thank you.”

“Oh?” The mage’s brow shot up.

The Warden nodded. “I’ve lost count of how many templars I’ve cut down tonight,” she said.

Uldren cackled. “I could help you kill a lot more, if you were of a mind. Just think--your talent, with the raw power of a demon behind it. You could be unstoppable.”

“Thing is,” Athadra went on as though he hadn’t spoken, “you made me kill a lot of my own folk to get here.”

“They were weak,” Uldred countered. “Not worthy of your consideration.”

“I think you may not be, either,” the Warden replied, bringing her sword up.

The bald mage sneered. “I don’t think it matters what you think. You are a well-muscled worm, and will bend to my...” As he spoke, Uldred began glowing, brightening with every word. When the light dimmed, he stood enormous before them, a glistening monster of purple flesh and black spines. “...will,” he finished off, his voice rumbling deep in Athadra’s chest.

The elf’s stomach dropped. “Fuck the gods,” she whispered to herself. Whatever had been left of Uldred was no more; in his place stood a Pride Demon, one of the most dangerous creatures to stalk the Fade. Athadra didn’t have long to worry about this turn of events, for the demon let out an otherworldly bellow, and the three Abominations rushed to aid it. Athadra tried to turn their magic against them with a Mana Clash, but a swipe from the Pride Demon’s talons had her scrambling backward.

Lightning and fire raged across the Harrowing Chamber as Athadra and Morrigan traded spells with the Abominations, while the demon itself occasionally charged and kicked at those who looked to engage its underlings directly. Occasionally one of the captive enchanters would begin glowing oddly, surrounded by rings of energy, and Morrigan had to quote from the Litany of Adralla to interrupt the attempted possession.

The Sten and Garahel managed to distract the Pride Demon long enough for Athadra to dispatch its minions, with a few well-placed arrows from Zevran and spells from Morrigan. Fighting her way through the fatigue the climb up the tower had earned her, Athadra joined the fray with the demon that was once Uldred, and together with the Qunari and her mabari, the elf got the better of the powerful foe. As it fell over, the Warden worried that the stone floor might crack beneath them, but by the time the demon landed it had changed back into Uldred once more.

Not wanting to take any chances, Athadra took her daggers and crossed them at the corps’s neck. With a sudden burst of energy, she pulled the blades apart, and the defeated mage’s bald head rolled away from his shoulders. As Uldred’s blood oozed from his body, the Warden took stock of the room; a half-dozen Senior Enchanters, First Enchanter Irving, and thirteen other high-ranking mages remained. Coupled with the handful of apprentices and children below, as well as the mage Athadra had set free on the way up and another who insisted on hiding in a cupboard, the Circle’s numbers stood a paltry third of the amount seen when Athadra had last left these walls.

“If I did not know your doubts,” the First Enchanter said wearily as he tried to stand under his own power, “I would say you were Andraste reborn, child.”

The Warden did her best to clean her daggers, and she signalled for Zevran to fetch over the pile of staves which Uldred’s short-lived converts had wrested from their captives. “You going to make it down the steps?”

Irving finally managed to right himself. “I have little choice. Curse whoever decided to house the Circle in a tower...” He looked from the living mages to the abominations laying dead. “Were you able to save any of the other mages?”

“A few,” Athadra answered. “Wynne got some of the young ones into the apprentice’s quarters.”

Mention of the woman drew Irving’s attention. “Her escape from this chamber drew Uldred’s ire. Is she with her charges now?”

The Warden hesitated before shaking her head. “She...fell,” Athadra said at last. “One of the possessed templars got too close to her. I’m sorry.” The elf did not mention the spirit rising from Wynne’s body, though; Irving looked distraught enough by the news of her death.

The old man leaned heavily upon his staff, wiping a stray tear from his cheek before nodding. “I imagine Greagoir is waiting for us, yes?”

Morrigan spoke up. “He waits for word from Denerim, and would see all of us put to ground for consorting with demons.” Athadra saw her conceal a small smile as the pronouncement worked its way through the injured enchanters. Most seemed unable to rise under their own power.

“He said he would call off the Right if you told him the tower were safe,” Athadra said over the half-panicked din.

“Is it?” Irving fixed her with blood-shot eyes, his expression grim. The Warden realized that he would condemn them all just as surely as the Knight-Commander, if he had to.

“We have cleared every room,” Athadra assured him, after the space of a breath. “Is everyone here on their own?”

It was Irving’s turn to hesitate, but he nodded after a heartbeat. “All who turned were below, Maker preserve them.”

Athadra turned toward the door. “Then those who can walk should follow the First Enchanter. The rest will be tended to in due course,” she said. One way or another, she added mentally.

Cullen had no words for anyone when he saw that the mages still lived, but he followed them down at Athadra’s insistence. It took the better part of an hour to descend the tower, with bookshelves and furniture strewn about, and a few fires still burning to block their way. When Athadra rejoined the chamber of junior mages, she could only shake her head when Petra and her companions asked after Wynne. She had no time for their tears, intent on reaching the great doors without delay. Despite hammering loudly on them and announcing the retrieval of Irving, however, no reply was forthcoming.

The Warden’s heart pounded, and she tried knocking again. This time, quite to her surprise, the doors came open of their own accord. Athadra’s shock compounded when she pressed past them and saw Alistair’s gilded sword at Knight-Commander Greagoir’s throat, while Ser Perth’s knights faced off against the surviving templars. Thought the tin-tops were outnumbered, they did not back down.

“What is the meaning of this?” Irving’s voice held all the authority of the First Enchanter of Ferelden, even if he had to lean rather heavily upon his stave.

Alistar’s gaze didn’t waver from Greagoir, who looked defiant even as he spread his hands. “The Knight-Commander said that Athadra had taken too long; he was going to try and start the Right early.”

“There will be no need for that,” the First Enchanter said gravely. “The Grey Wardens have secured the tower, so everyone can stand down.”

“No!” Athadra jumped as Cullen jostled past her. “They may all be blood mages, lying in wait! Even Irving cannot be trusted!”

The arrival of the Warden and her companions had shifted the tense balance in the entrance hall, and suddenly everyone was looking between Athadra, Irving, and Cullen. Grudgingly, Alistair took a step back and sheathed his sword, while Greagoir took the younger templar’s measure.

“He were kept bound,” Athadra said unprompted. “Tortured with visions and offers, as were the mages. If they are to be killed, so should he.” Her voice remained level, even as her fingers twitched at her sides.

Greagoir looked at Irving. “Well?”

The First Enchanter did not hesitate, this time. “Our trials were great, Knight-Commander, but Uldred lies dead in the Harrowing Chamber along with all who were tempted to take up his cause. The Fereldan Circle is saved.”

The templar heaved a deep sigh and shook his head. “Haldane, go and relieve Carrol. Wilibur, go after the mission to Denerim and tell them the Right of Annulment is no longer required.” The two helmed templars moved to obey the command as quickly as they could. When they opened the great doors leading to the world outside, Athadra saw pink bleeding into the Eastern sky over the bannorn.

“Now,” she broke in over Cullen’s renewed protests. “Now,” she repeated, more loudly. “About those sodding treaties.” The Warden nodded to Alistair, who dug into his pack for the one signed by First Enchanter Quintus, just after the last Blight. The former templar offered the parchment to Greagoir, who held up his hands again and deferred the matter to Irving.

The First Enchanter took up the document and scanned over it quickly. “Mmm...yes, I see. It seems straightforward--the Circle will move to aid the Grey Wardens in a time of Blight.” He carefully folded the paper and passed it back to Alistair. “Greagoir and I both know of Duncan’s suspicions to that effect, but are you certain this truly is a Blight, Athadra?”

“She prefers _Commander_ , now,” the Knight-Commander said with a barely-concealed laugh.

Irving took a second look at the elf’s armour and nodded. “Commander, then.”

Athadra breathed a bit easier when the man didn’t return Greagoir’s jest. “Aye,” she confirmed. “Alistair and I--with our allies--forged into the Deep Roads from Orzammar last Solace. We saw the Archdemon marshalling another wave of the horde in the Dead Trenches.” Her pronouncement caused a hush to fall over the templars and mages who’d bled out into the entrance hall, though none of them had heard of Bownammar before.

Irving nodded. “Then our course is clear. The Circle will fight by your side...though we will need time to rebuild our strength, after this fiasco.”

“We still have to sound out the Dalish elves, come the spring. You think you can get a handful of battlemages ready by then?” Athadra looked around at the few ambulatory enchanters, and the larger group of children, until she found the woman whom she’d spared, skulking closer to the door.

“I believe so, Commander,” Irving replied. “It is the least we can do to repay you for saving the Circle.”

“I will be needing a pair of mages before then, though,” Athadra warned him. “Today, in fact.” She glanced back over her shoulder to the arl’s young son. “Come here, Connor. You’re going home.”

“Impossible!” The Knight-Commander stepped forward again. “This boy hasn’t even been Harrowed. What use could he be to you?”

Athadra shrugged. “That ain’t your concern, tin-top.” She looked more fully at the sneaking mage. “You,” she called, and the woman froze. “You’re coming with me, too.”

“I cannot allow this,” Greagoir said.

“I thought First Enchanter Irving had say on where his mages went?” Athadra met the Knight-Commander’s gaze without blinking. “You just said so, after all.”

Greagoir frowned down at her. “He is responsible for the mages. I am responsible for protecting the good people of Ferelden from them. We cannot be sure either of them haven’t succumbed to demonry or forbidden arts.”

“Then consider them my first recruits,” Athadra hissed through her teeth. “Unless you think the Right of Conscription died with Commander Duncan?”

The Knight-Commander held up a finger. “Fine, Commander,” he said grudgingly. “I’ll tell you what I told Duncan, when he saved you from justice: If you wish the Grey Wardens to become a haven for maleficarum, you will one day face the consequences.”

Athadra’s eyes widened, her fingers inching closer to the daggers at her hip. “Things facing me have a habit of falling in my wake,” she remarked in a low whisper. “Demons, darkspawn, and those who’ve stood between them and me.” To his credit, the Knight-Commander did not back away, or even move to pick up his sword from the ground, but he did not answer. “It’s been a long night, Ser Greagoir. Let us pass. All of us.”

Greagoir looked at Irving for a long moment before throwing up his hands. “Go, then.”

The Warden gave him a crooked smile and nodded, calling after Connor once again, and the nervous-looking mage. With them them in tow, Athadra crossed the floor and clapped arms with Ser Perth. She thanked him, but just as she reached the doors, she remembered the promise she’d made to Shale back at Soldier’s Peak. “There is just one other thing,” the Warden said, almost apologetically, turning to face the first enchanter. Irving straightened and looked at her expectantly. “This is my friend, Shale,” Athadra pointed out, nodding to the golem.

“We are pleased to meet you, Shale,” the older man wheezed. “And I thank you for your part in securing the fate of the Circle.”

The golem’s stony features looked dubious, but before she could speak, Athadra pressed on. “In the Deep Roads, we discovered that golems aren’t simply constructs,” she elaborated, “but rather made from living people...mostly dwarves.” Even some of the templars managed to gasp at the revelation. “I was wondering if you might authorize an investigation to see if this process can be reversed, First Enchanter.” The lilt to the Warden’s words, only recently reclaimed by her liberation, had begun to soften beneath the walls of the place she’d learned so much.

Irving looked slightly stunned, his eyes moving from Shale to Athadra and back again. “I...can see no reason not to, Commander,” he admitted. Greagoir continued to look disgusted with everyone in the Warden’s party, but he offered no complaint. “Though such a commission must needs wait until the tower is put to order, and likely until after the Blight has been settled.” He fixed Shale in his gaze more strongly. “Tell me, good ser, is this something you desire?”

The shock of having a non-Warden mage address her so must have driven the words out of Shale’s mouth, for she stood as mute as a statue for nearly half a minute. “I...have thought on it,” the golem commented. “And I believe I would like...the option. After the great corrupted dragon has been put to rest, of course.”

“Then you should return here in due course, my friend,” the first enchanter replied. “And we shall do all in our power to ensure a good outcome. Now, I believe it’s been a long ordeal for all of us,” he continued, sweeping his gaze over Warden and templar, knight and assassin alike.

“Aye,” Athadra agreed, turning to Redcliffe’s men. “Let’s go home, lads.” The cries of ‘Aye, Champion!’ made the elf feel strange, but the sensation was not entirely unwelcome as she shepherded Connor and the former Circle mage out onto the ship that would take them all South, to safety.


	43. Blood Is Thicker Than Lyrium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Champion of Redcliffe makes a triumphant return to her adopted home, and places the arl even further in her debt. Athadra also cajoles Alistair to re-evaluate some of the assumptions he's inherited from a childhood spent in a Chantry.

“Am I really to be a Grey Warden?” The woman seemed distressed and relieved by the prospect in equal measure. She called herself Friga, and claimed her home amongst the Avvars of the Frostback Mountains, but she’d been in the Circle since she was seven years old. Athadra did not press further into her past.

The Warden sat upon her small cot, sharpening one of her daggers, and regarded the other mage evenly. “Not unless you wish it,” she said. “But I do need your help, at least until the Blight is over. You won’t have to fight,” she assured the woman. “I promise.”

Relief won out in Friga’s expression. “What would you have of me?”

“Look after Connor. Guard him against attracting another demon.” The boy slept the next cabin over, with the other Warden and the rest of their party.

“Another?” Friga blinked.

“Aye,” Athadra said. “Did you know an apprentice called Jowan?”

The woman shrugged. “He spoke with me once for help in Entropy, I think. Seemed a hapless fool.”

Morrigan laughed. “Sounds like the man,” she said lightly.

“He poisoned Arl Eamon while he was supposed to be tutoring the boy at the arlessa’s behest,” Athadra explained. “The distress drew a Desire Demon to Connor. There were...unpleasant consequences to the village.”

“But the boy is so young,” Friga pointed out. “He’s...what? Ten? Twelve? Even if he were possessed, he shouldn’t have been strong enough to let the demon’s full power through the Veil.”

“He were,” Athadra assured her. “I had to cut through enough corpses to make sure of that. That’s why he needs some proper training, before he strays again.” With a sigh, she explained about her deal with the Desire Demon, and how she’d encountered it again in the tower, only to strike it down. If anyone would understand, it was the blood mage.

The woman considered. “And what happens when the Blight is over? Will you send me back to the Circle?”

“Of course not,” Athadra responded. “You said you wanted to be free of the templars. That Andraste waged war to free people from slavery in Tevinter. You and I stood slaves of the Chantry--me for nine years, you for more.” Friga nodded, and the Warden tested the edge of her blade and found it satisfactory. “Were you thinking of taking after the Bride of the Maker?”

Friga’s face twitched. “What are you suggesting?”

Athadra placed the dagger in its sheath and lay it with her armour, right beside her. “Nothing, for the nonce. I’ve got an Archdemon to slay. Afterward, if you’re interested, you can stay on and see what happens when Alistair sits the stone chair in Denerim.” The Warden stifled a yawn and lay back on the large cot, leaving enough room for Morrigan. “Keep close to the boy,” she said. “There ain’t no tin-tops in Redcliffe, at least not yet. When the Blight’s done, we can talk about what you want to do.”

The Avvar mage nodded. “I’ll teach him well,” she promised, and settled onto her pile of blankets. They’d all feasted on the cheese and bread the ship still carried, as well as some fish caught by the crew during Athadra’s sweep through the tower. The exhaustion of the ordeal finally caught up to the Warden and the other two mages, and they spent the rest of the trip sleeping soundly.

The wind was with the galley on the return journey, so it cut through the water more quickly. By sunrise the next day, Redcliffe Castle’s finger of an island rose into the fog on the Southern horizon. The sun peaked at their backs as the Wardens and their band emerged from the galley, and its captain swept into a bow from the deck above them.

Athadra kept Connor and Friga close to her during the long march through the village and up the winding cliff-path. Several people called out cordially to her, and a few even recognized the boy. The Warden waved and returned the calls, but did not stop, in case the villagers took too close note of her new companions’ robes. Ser Perth and his men marched beside her company as though victorious veterans returning from campaign; Athadra wondered how many would still stand in a year’s time, but she said nothing.

The bailey had not gone idle in the Warden and the Sten’s absence; a whole row of straw-stuffed enemies stood proudly against a wall, and some able-bodied men from the village were already working them over, under the able eyes of a sergeant. These men and those who followed would not be knights, but they would be called to serve their arl all the same when summer came.

Athadra found Eamon in his study, in conversation with his younger brother. Teagan took note of them first. “Connor?”

The arl looked up from his desk, his face registering shock and then amazement. “My boy,” he breathed, moving to stand.

“Father,” Connor addressed the man dutifully, though he couldn’t hold back his grin. When Eamon swept around his desk and pulled the boy off his feet in a bear-hug, the child hid his sniffles in his father’s beard. “Why did you send me away?”

“I had no choice,” the arl answered. “The law...”

“Don’t apply to Grey Wardens,” Athadra finished for him, crossing her arms in front of her.

Teagan regarded her closely. “What do you mean?”

The Warden smirked. “I mean that Connor’s beyond the reach of the Chantry as long as I’m the Commander of the Grey.” She saw Teagan’s face shift curiously--first relief, and then worry. She tilted her head at the flaxen-haired mage beside her. “This is Friga. She’s an accomplished enchanter from the Circle. She’ll take care of his...special education. Keep him from making some bad decisions.”

The arl finally set his son down and wiped tears from the corners of his eyes. “I...cannot possibly repay you, Champion.” A new respect shone through the older man’s voice, and he held out a hand for her to clasp. She took the man’s arm with a nod.

“We’ll talk about that later,” Athadra told him. “After we’ve settled our matter with the teyrn.”

Eamon’s grin turned into a smirk. “I suppose we shall, at that. In the meantime, is there anything you need?”

The Warden glanced to her fellow mage for a moment. “Welcome Friga into your home and give her everything she needs to keep Connor here, too.” She’d introduced the woman and the boy properly on the ship, and they seemed to get along well enough. “Try and keep the templars from setting up shop downstairs, if you can.”

“We’ll see what we can do,” Teagan spoke for his brother. “Thank you again, Champion.” The bann’s eyes caught on Friga’s face for a moment, but he looked away quickly before the mage could register the look.

“Thank you, Commander,” Friga said as the Warden turned to go. Athadra smiled at the woman and inclined her head.

A few moments later, Athadra nearly ran into Leliana, just emerging from Alistair’s room near the stairs. She mumbled an apology in Orlesian and rushed away quickly, leaving the Warden slightly confused. When Alistair filled out the open doorway he gave her a grimace. “I don’t know why you like women so much,” he sighed.

“Yes you do,” she replied curtly, which caused his grimace to deepen.

“Oh. Right.” Barking a laugh, the man turned. “Apparently I say the wrong thing to women I don’t kiss, too,” he breathed.

“What happened?” Athadra’s brow arched.

The man paused and turned back. “Do you care?” The forthrightness of the question took Athadra off her guard, and she took a breath to consider.

“Aye,” she said at last. “Mostly because I don’t want the only other fighting Warden in this sodding Blight to lose his head before we’ve brought down the Archdemon, but...” She shrugged. “Not just because of that, I guess. Besides,” the Warden continued, “women have softer lips. Much better for kissing.”

Alistair managed a laugh and a nod. “You’re right. Not that I have much experience with men to compare it with,” he added quickly. And then “Not that there’s something wrong with that,” even more quickly. “In case the assassin is within earshot,” he said under his breath, with a wink. When Athadra gestured for him to continue, his face relaxed. “Well, Leliana was thinking that your new guest will need a room to stay in, and she suggested giving hers up.”

“...and?” Athadra’s brow raised again.

“And,” Alistair went on, “she didn’t react very well when I asked her where she would sleep.” His cheeks pinked slightly as he looked down at the floor.

It was Athadra’s turn to laugh. “Haven’t you shared a tent with her?”

“No!” Alistair shook his head. “Well, I mean...we’ve been in a tent together, but just talking. And a bit of kissing, but that’s all,” he insisted. “We always went to our own tents to sleep. But this...I don’t think I’m ready for this, Athadra.”

“Not...ready?” Athadra didn’t understand at first, but suddenly comprehension dawned. “You mean you’ve never...?”

The would-be templar went a deeper shade of puce. “Never...licked a lamppost in winter?” He ventured, hopefully.

“Fucked,” Athadra clarified, grinning at the heat crawling down Alistair’s neck.

It took the man a moment to compose himself. “I...no,” he said at last. “I’ve not had the pleasure,” he continued, drawling the last word. “I’ve thought about it, sure. It’s just never come up...and that sounded much worse than I meant it to.”

Athadra shook her head. “Still tempted to run with it,” she warned him. “But I understand,” she admitted. “It’s important to you that it’s right, the first time.” She didn’t add that she’d wanted that, too, only to have it denied her.

Alistair’s lips parted and he swallowed. “Yes,” he said. “I...really care for Leliana. But I’m going to have to get married eventually,” he said, again surprising Athadra with a sudden display of thoughtfulness. “And I doubt I could convince Eamon to let me marry a half-Orlesian bard with no standing in the Landsmeet, before I’m even crowned.”

Athadra sighed. “That’s a decision you’re going to have to make. But Leliana’s a savvy woman, and she’s the one you need to talk to about this.” She looked down the hall, remembering the bard’s angry tears. “Tomorrow, at least.”

“Right,” Alistair said. “Thanks, Commander.” He gave her a wink.

The Warden shook her head again. “Anyway, I needed to talk to you, myself. In private. Come on.” She led him down the hall, past Leliana’s closed door, to her own room. Morrigan sat reading from the tome they’d found in Irving’s office, and Athadra smiled at the way the woman’s bottom lip caught on her teeth when she concentrated. “Shut the door,” she told Alistair, before she started divesting herself of her heavy armour.

Morrigan closed the book and raised a brow at the both of them. “Whatever you have in mind for the simpleton, Athadra, it had better not be worth closing the door for.”

Alistair frowned, but Athadra only laughed. “I need to talk with the both of you,” she said, working at her grieves. “We had to fight off a lot of possessed templars climbing the tower.”

“Indeed,” Morrigan sighed. “‘Twas more than I’ve ever seen in one place. I’d not encountered their particular magic personally, before.” She frowned, clearly not avid to repeat the experience.

“Templars don’t do magic,” Alistair pointed out. “We--they--have skills that they use to drain mana and disrupt spells...but they use lyrium to power those.”

“Aye,” Athadra said. “And I have skills that can drain mana and disrupt spells...and I can even turn a mage’s mana against her. When I do it, it’s called a Mana Clash. When you do it, you call it a Holy Smite, since that sounds so much better.” The Warden put up a hand when Alistair looked to protest. “Whatever you call it, templars can work with magical energy. Do you know how?”

Alistair shrugged. “I learned a bit before Duncan took me out of the Chantry,” he admitted. “He said it’d be good if I kept practicing, but I didn’t think there’d be any point, since I wouldn’t have access to any lyrium.”

Athadra glanced at Morrigan, and the Wilds-witch took her meaning. “Yet the crazed templars we faced had no access, either,” Morrigan observed.

The Warden nodded. “Their Smites and other abilities weren’t as strong as I was expecting, either...but they could still do them.”

“But they were possessed,” Alistair countered. “You said so yourself.”

Athadra shrugged. “Some were. Most were enthralled, though. It ain’t the same.” She breathed a sigh. “And we know that templars use blood magic to track us down when we go missing,” the Warden mentioned. She referenced the phylacteries, vials of mages’ blood which were used for the purpose.

Alistair’s brow knitted. “So what are you saying? That the templars use _blood magic_? To combat mana?” He shook his head. “That sounds crazy. Blood magic is forbidden.”

“‘Tis not so difficult to believe, really,” Morrigan mused. “We mages draw our power from the Fade, through the Veil. That process can be disrupted by temporarily thickening the Veil around us, which is part of a templar’s abilities, whencever they come.”

Athadra snapped her fingers. “And that’s not possible with blood magic, since the source is inside the mage herself. It cannot be bound or cut off.”

“But it’s forbidden,” Alistair repeated, stubbornly. “The Chant says--”

“I sodding well know what the sodding Chant says,” Athadra shot back. “The Chant was made up by men and women after Andraste died--if she ever even lived--to give sanction to the Orlesian Empire. And it forbids magic of any kind being used to hurt people. Those are maleficarum.”

The casual blasphemy might once have overwhelmed the would-be templar, but now he merely sighed. “Then why do templars need lyrium?”

“One,” Athadra said, holding up a finger. “It addicts them and keeps them at the Chantry’s mercy, since the Chantry oversees the lyrium trade. Which you know full well. Two, it does make the attacks stronger, as I can attest.” Her third finger rose as she counted off. “Three, it provides a cover for the true source of the templars’ power--blood. According to the Chantry, blood magic came from demons...but that doesn’t explain where ‘normal’ magic came from.”

“What do you mean?” Alistair looked mildly confused, but Morrigan leaned forward attentively.

“I remember my grandad telling a few Dalish stories,” Athadra went on. “Used to be, before the shems came, all the elves knew magic...and they didn’t need lyrium to do it. But then the shemlens arrived, and took it from us.”

“But the histories tell us differently,” Alistair insisted. “The Tevinters developed blood magic to augment their powers in the first place.”

Athadra shrugged. “Maybe,” she conceded. “Or maybe they learnt blood magic from the elves. Avernus has lived two Ages with just his blood and his own brilliance. The elves of old were said to live for a thousand years.” She shook her head. “That doesn’t matter right now, though. I want you to start training your templar abilities, again. And I want to see if I can teach you to do any other magic.”

“With my blood?” Alistairs brows both rose, and he shook his head. “No way, Athadra. I’m not damning my soul to prove your point for you.”

The Warden growled. “I’ve told you,” she said slowly. “You’ve already _done_ blood magic. What did you do at your Joining? Drink fern tea?”

“But that was darkspawn blood, not human blood,” the taller Warden said.

Morrigan laughed. “Are you not going to face more of the fiends, or have you given up already?”

The man looked from one mage to the other, his lips working wordlessly for a few moments. “Point taken,” he said at last. “I’ll...consider revisiting my training as a templar,” he conceded. “But I don’t think it’ll go anywhere. And I’m not making any deals with demons.”

The Warden smiled. “I wouldn’t ask you to, Alistair.”


	44. Skinchanger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that the dwarves and mages have been swayed to their cause, the Wardens seek to settle into Redcliffe for the remainder of the winter before seeking out the Dalish elves whom their treaties also compel. Meanwhile, Athadra continues her tutelage with the Sten, as Morrigan attempts to divine the secrets of her mother's ancient tome. When the book's contents are revealed, however, the witch gives her lover an unenviable task of great risk and little immediate profit.

Athadra bathed and took her supper in her room with Morrigan, still unable to sort through all that she’d done in the Circle Tower and all that she’d thought of thereafter. The Wilds-witch had claimed the desk and a sheaf of parchment, which she’d already covered half of in odd scribblings.

“‘Tis a cypher,” she explained, when Athadra probed the matter. “The base script is Elvish, I’m nearly certain, and so the language should be such as well. But it is written in a code beyond that.”

“How long do you think it’ll take you to master it?” The Warden rolled up her own scroll and looked across to her companion.

The Wilds-witch sat back and shook her head. “Truly, I do not know. Perhaps a week. Perhaps more.” She turned from the task to face Athadra. “What has caught your interest?”

“Something we found in the tower. It’s in Ancient Tevene, but thankfully uncoded elsewise. I would say I’m surprised to have found it, but given how many blood mages we saw, I’m not.”

“‘Tis a forbidden spell, then?” Morrigan’s eyes gleamed with interest and suspicion in equal measure.

Athadra nodded. “Part of one, I think. It seems incomplete--details of maintaining energy during a ritual. I suspect there’s at least one before it and another after.”

“Shall you make use of the ritual?” The witch’s pupils traced up Athadra’s arm to her neck, and the elf felt a pleasant chill creep along her flesh.

“Alistair wouldn’t like it, I expect,” the Warden replied. “But I don’t think this scroll gives me enough to go on. Pity.”

Morrigan remained silent for a moment, glancing from the opened codex and her fellow mage. “I had a wonder,” she said at last, evidently deciding against continuing her task. When Athadra raised a brow, the Wilds-witch continued. “When we fought together in the Fade, I observed you changing your image. I was not aware you could do such.”

Athadra shrugged. “I didn’t know it were possible, honestly. But I found others there--dreamers or spirits--who taught me.” She lay her head back on a pillow. “Or, rather, they showed me that I could take another shape. I couldn’t have made it to the Sloth Demon without them.”

“So you could not reproduce that magic, here?” Morrigan’s face was smooth as Tevinter marble.

The Warden regarded the other woman for a long moment, and then shook her head. “If there’s such a spell, I don’t know it,” she admitted. The human mage held Athadra’s gaze, and the elf noticed Morrigan’s tongue nestled at the corner of her mouth, which told Athadra that she was considering something deeply.

After a few long moments, Morrigan nodded slightly. “There are schools of magic without the Circle’s control,” she said at last. “Changing one’s shape counts among these.”

Athadra tilted her head. “Can you perform it?”

In answer, Morrigan stood up and moved to the centre of the room. Her hands swept up in a series of complicated motions which Athadra couldn’t quite follow, and soon the Wilds-witch glowed a dull orange. A moment later Athadra’s eyes widened even more, as the figure of Morrigan seemed to melt; her clothes collapsed into a pile of rags, and the Warden had to sit up to see what had become of her. A feline slunk from the pile and stretched lazily, turning its familiar slitted eyes up to the elf.

“That’s a neat trick,” Athadra breathed.

The cat glowed once more and rose up into the familiar form of the Wilds-witch. Morrigan strode toward the bed, her clothes seemingly forgotten. “‘Tis a skill of Flemeth’s,” she said, her brows knitting. “I am...sorry. That I did not confide it in you until now.”

Athadra pulled her legs up, to give the woman room to sit with her. “It’s alright,” she answered.  “What’s it like?”

Morrigan’s lips curved thoughtfully. “Interesting,” she admitted.

The elf’s brow rose. “Can you make yourself look like anyone else?”

Morrigan shook her head. “I would learn nothing from such mimicry. This is the only human form I possess.”

“You make it sound like you aren’t human,” Athadra pointed out, only half in jest.

“I have soared the skies as a hawk...smelt the forest as a wolf. ‘Tis unlike anything I’ve felt in this body.” Morrigan regarded the fireplace, and for an instant Athadra could see the felinian slits in her eyes once more, just for a moment. “But my life is as a human.” She turned to the Warden with a disarming smile. “I would not have it otherwise.”

Athadra nodded slightly, not entirely satisfied, but content with that answer. “Could you pass it on?”

“I could,” Morrigan replied a bit guardedly. “If I wished for something in exchange.”

The Warden frowned. “I don’t suppose you want to learn how to cut yourself?”

“I do not,” Morrigan confirmed. “Though I appreciate the offer, Athadra. Truly.” She shook her head. “You are better served to maintain your lessons with the giant, since he hasn’t managed to kill you, yet. Becoming an animal is most useful for avoiding danger, after all--and we both know that you treat deadly circumstance as though it were an inviting bed.” The unclothed witch shifted, arching over the elf, herself still clad in a gown.

The Warden’s tongue snaked over her lips to wet them. “You do know me rather well,” she breathed. “But sometimes a proper bed is nice, too.”

“Indeed,” Morrigan replied, and she lowered herself down, her lips catching on Athadra’s as the elf rose up to meet her kiss. Soon enough, the Warden forgot all about her curiosity to learn her companion’s newly-revealed skill.

Athadra did return to the practice yard with the Sten the next morning, though she wore her Warden Commander plate, and not just for the modesty of the other troops who trained there. She also made sure to let the regular villagers see her more often, and she found Bodahn Feddic at a stall near the docks a few days after she’d returned with Connor. His son Sandal waved as she approached.

“I see you took up Arl Eamon’s offer to ply your goods here,” the Warden said by way of greeting.

The dwarf bowed nearly to the wood of his table. “The good arl has been kind to me and my boy, hasn’t he, Sandal?” The boy, who was just a bit taller than his father, nodded enthusiastically. “I hear you did the arl a good turn, yourself,” Bodahn went on. “After saving the village and his life, it’s not a wonder the folk around here call you Champion of Redcliffe. Are you...planning on going back to Orzammar, any time soon?”

Athadra shrugged. “I doubt it,” she said. _So long as King Behlen keeps his word_ , she thought. “You feeling the call of the road again?”

“I might be,” Bodahn replied. “There’s enough trade between here and Rainesfere that I should be able to last the winter, but I’ll need to go further afield if I want any...specialty items.”

The Warden arched a brow. “What kind of items?”

The merchant hesitated. “Old things,” he said at last. “Mostly...things people’ve left behind, too big to carry. With the Blight, and all.”

“Ahh,” Athadra allowed. “And you want to save them from the darkspawn?”

Bodahn nodded. “Exactly. Make them useful again, you know.”

“And make a few coins while you’re at it,” Athadra pointed out. She shrugged. “I was planning on taking the horde’s measure in a few weeks, before we set out for the Brecilian Forest. If you can stay out of the way, you can come along,” she offered. “As long as I get half of your takings,” she added as an afterthought, just as she turned to go.

Bodahn considered, and then grudgingly nodded. “Of course, Champion. You’ll be taking all the risks, I suppose.” The Warden sealed the bargain with a nod of her own, and continued her tour of the village.

True to her prediction, it took Morrigan six days to decrypt her mother’s cypher, and much of the next to ascertain the tome’s contents. When Athadra returned from her day’s labours, the Wilds-witch was still hunched over the codex; she hardly moved as the elf unbuckled her armour and came closer.

“You look disturbed,” Athadra said, after she got a glimpse of Morrigan’s expression.

Morrigan flinched and turned from the book. “Disturbed?” Her brows drew down and she took a few steadying breaths. “Yes, I suppose ‘tis one way of describing how I feel.”

Athadra took her place on the bed, concern tinging the edges of her face. “What’s amiss?”

The Wilds-witch glanced at the silver tree on the codex’s cover. “This is not the grimoire I’d thought it was. I was expecting spells of great power, but instead...” She shook her head and turned back to the Warden. “‘Tis a diary, of sorts, and a history. Among other things, it details just how Flemeth has remained alive for so long.”

“Does she bathe in the blood of children?” Athadra regretted the jest when Morrigan’s visage spasmed.

“That is not far off,” the witch confirmed. “The legends tell of Flemeth having many daughters, yet I have never met one. According to the book, when Flemeth grows older, she will have a daughter...by what means it does not specify, though I suspect they are taken as infants for the magic they possess.”

“So...you might have been kidnapped?”

“I...suppose so, yes,” Morrigan considered. “By whichever method, though, the end is the same. Flemeth trains her daughters until they’ve become strong enough, and then she...takes their bodies. The stronger the vessel, as the book calls us, the easier the transition is for her.” Her lip twitched into a disgusted frown.

The elf sat up. “That’s why she sent you with me,” Athadra breathed. “So you could fully exercise your magic in battle.”

Morrigan nodded. “It seems so. She could be preparing the ritual as we speak, in preparation for my return.”

“What do you intend to do about it, then?” The Warden leaned forward, her brows knitted.

“There is but one option,” Morrigan said. “Flemeth...needs to die.” She took a breath, holding the elf’s gaze. “And you must be the one to do it.”

Athadra was surprised to find that she had expected no less. “Aye. If you’re too close when she goes...”

“She might be able to take possession of my body then and there,” Morrigan finished. “And I cannot let that happen.”

The Warden nodded. “Do you think she’s still in the Wilds, amidst the darkspawn?”

“I do,” Morrigan affirmed. “She might have moved the hut, but I trust you to find it. I need Mother’s true grimoire...I doubt even her physical death would see Flemeth utterly destroyed. The tome could well hold the key to preventing her from taking me in the future.”

Athadra took a breath. She knew as many tales of Asha’bellanar as anyone, and perhaps a few more than most...and above all, she knew that the Witch of the Wilds would not be easy to kill. But neither would the Archdemon, she reflected soberly...and she’d have to cut her way through an army of darkspawn to face either. “Very well,” the Warden said, and she reclaimed her feet.

“You intend to leave tonight?” Morrigan stood as well, clasping her hands before her.

Athadra nodded as she slipped her grieves over her shins.

The Wilds-witch worked at her little finger for a moment. “Take this, then,” she said. “‘Tis a ring.”

The Warden hesitated for a breath, before she reached out to take it. Her heart threatened to skip a beat as she looked at it. “What’s it for?” It looked to be a circle of simple pewter, dulled by years of wear.

“‘Twas a gift from Mother, when I was a child. She’d enchanted it so that she would know if I were in danger, and where to find me if so.” Morrigan glanced away. “Years ago, I reworked the enchantment so that the ring saw me as its owner.”

“So you’ll be able to look in on me whenever you wish?” Athadra’s brow raised, and she wasn’t certain she was entirely pleased by that prospect.

The Wilds-witch shook her head. “Only when you feel yourself in danger, and then I will only be able to sense the ring’s location.” She sighed. “Do not think this borne of sentiment,” she warned. “You have supplied me with equipment; ‘tis fitting I repay you in kind.”

Athadra held Morrigan’s gaze for a moment as she considered. Finally she nodded and slipped the metal onto her third finger. It still held Morrigan’s heat, but apart from that, the Warden could not sense anything special about the ring. “Thank you, Morrigan,” she said, and she continued buckling herself into her plate. Her gauntlets protected the backs of her hands and her knuckles, but left her palms and fingerpads free to better grip her weapons, so she hardly noticed the new accessory.

“Goodbye, then,” Morrigan said when Athadra filled the doorway. “Make certain you return. I do not think the half-wit prince can overcome the Blight on his own.”

Athadra shared the other woman’s laugh, and she savoured the sight of Morrigan with a long backward glance, before turning to pursue the latest fork in her path.


	45. Mother's Milk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Warden ranges into the Hinterlands, and the Korcari Wilds beyond, in search of the Witch of the Wilds. The old woman reveals herself every bit as dangerous as the legends suggest.

Athadra spent half of the third week of Firstfall riding through the rough-hewn trails of the Hinterlands, with the Sten at her side, and Oghren and Zevran not far behind. Garahel ranged through the woods or ahead of them on the trails, helping them find game and avoid the largest bands of darkspawn. Firstfall was named as the month when snow often reached the heart of the Tevinter Imperium, far to the North. In the South of Ferelden, August often had that privilege, a full three months beforehand.

Luckily, Arl Eamon had discovered the details of Athadra’s adventure in the Circle Tower, and his gratitude seemed redoubled by the horrors from which she’d rescued his son. That had finally earned her the horses she’d asked after for so long, and she wasted no time in commandeering four of them for her current task. To Athadra’s surprise, the stables held a steed worthy of bearing the Sten’s weight; to her further shock, the Sten was an accomplished rider, and Zevran was at least as good as she. Oghren had a few reservations at first, but after a few minutes in the saddle, he declared it easier than wrangling a bronto, and they’d set off just as the moon rose.

Nights were bitterly cold, and the days only slightly less so; the occasional skirmish with half-frozen darkspawn often served to warm them as much as anything. Athadra’s band passed from the Hinterlands and into the Korcari Wilds without remarking upon the fact at first, but their progress slowed as they had to blaze their own trails through the thick evergreens. Most of the Chasind folk seemed to have fled, but their numbers had been more than replaced by the darkspawn. Athadra had finally managed to convince Alistair to stay behind for just that reason; the fiends could sense Wardens just as Wardens could sense them, and Alistair’s taint coupled with her own could draw more attention than her small group could cope with.

Tracking through the Wilds took them to the end of Firstfall’s fourth week. Athadra couldn’t tell if the deep snows helped or hindered their cause. She recalled the wetlands of her summer journey North, after the Tower of Ishal...wetlands which sat frozen beneath the snows their horses carefully picked over. The Warden was close to losing hope and turning back after waking another morning with her screams, borne of nightmares which grew more intense the deeper she forged into the horde. Untainted food was getting scarcer as well, which concerned Athadra on behalf of her comrades, none of whom had the Warden’s immunity. A half-day’s journey Southwest of Ostagar brought them within sight of a lone hut, however, and as they drew nearer Athadra remembered seeing the weathered wood twice before. She had everyone dismount and tie the horses securely, and she had Garahel stay behind to keep watch over them. The Warden didn’t want to have to limp all the way back to Redcliffe, if she managed to survive the day.

Flemeth stood on her simple porch. “You are late,” she pronounced, when Athadra crossed the little footbridge onto the island. The Sten and Oghren followed, clutching the crossbows they’d been using to hunt, while Zevran brought up the rear.

“ _Ran into some trouble in the woods_ ,” Athadra called back, in the tongue of her ancestors, the tongue Morrigan had helped to teach her. “ _I don’t care for the new neighbours, honestly_.” She managed a smirk, despite the knot building in her belly.

The Witch of the Wilds cackled and replied in kind. “ _Oh, you know how it is. You find some prime land, and no matter how many bloated corpses you hang up as a warning to stay away, there’s always some fool willing to move in across the stream_.”

Athadra’s thumb worried over the pewter ring half-consciously, and she wondered whether Morrigan could sense her mounting fear. “ _You know my purpose_ ,” she said as her face fell.

Flemeth nodded. “ _You seek my grimoire_.” Her head inclined toward the door. “ _Take it as a trophy, and tell my daughter I am slain_.” Her eyes danced as she considered the four of them.

Athadra couldn’t claim that she wasn’t tempted. “ _And what will you do, if I do that_?”

“ _Nothing_ ,” Flemeth said with a laugh. “ _I will wait and watch, as I’ve so often done. It will be interesting to see what Morrigan does with her freedom. She’s such a headstrong girl_.”

“ _That’s why I love her_ ,” the elf admitted, and she suddenly remembered the snatch of conversation which had taught her how to say _love_ in Elvish. Morrigan had nearly thrown up. The memory helped to deepen Athadra’s smile. “ _I made her a promise. I cannot go half way_.”

Flemeth’s gaze settled on the Warden, and she chuckled, low in her throat. “ _Then I pity you your innocence, child, for your heart has betrayed you...just as my daughter has, and will again_.”

Athadra glanced at the men to each side of her and nodded subtly. The old woman’s words sunk into the back of her mind, but she found she did not care. “ _And I will kill her, too, if I have to. But you will not have her, if I can stop it_.”

“Very well,” the Witch of the Wilds replied in the King’s Tongue, so that all might understand. She leaned on her walking stick as she moved onto a low rise before them. “We begin the dance old Flemeth knows all too well. Let’s see if she still remembers her steps.” Athadra’s eyes widened as she recognized the peculiar motion that Flemeth made with her hands just above her head, and the elf’s stomach tightened when the old woman began to glow.

“Frothy nug juice,” Oghren swore beside her, working to draw back his crossbow. “What is this thing?”

Athadra’s lips parted as she observed Flemeth’s form enlarge. The shabby robe split open and fell to the ground as the form within it quickly grew; Flemeth’s white hair swept back and darkened into a series of horns and spines, her flesh turning a deep crimson and violet. More quickly than the Warden could imagine, the creature that had been Flemeth spread its wings and arched its head, shooting a gout of flame dozens of feet in the air.

An arrow whizzed over her head at the creature. “I believe you call that a...dragon, no?” The Antivan elf seemed far less disturbed by the transformation than either Oghren or the Warden. He’d already fired a second arrow and was loading a third when Athadra regained her senses.

“Aye,” the Warden confirmed, sending a pulse of spirit energy at the creature. “A High Dragon, from its look.” Flemeth didn’t sit idly under the rain of attacks for long, however, and Athadra’s band had to scatter under the threat of the monster’s spitted flames and swinging tail. The Sten cast off his crossbow soon after, drawing Asala and issuing a battlecry. Athadra charged along with him, soon joined by the red-bearded dwarf who wielded the wide blade of Ageless.

Together, they kept the dragon distracted enough for Zevran to put out one of its eyes. That set its wings to flapping, which knocked the Warden off her feet, and she rolled out of the way just before the monster’s clawed foot slammed down onto the snow-packed ground. Athadra cast an Arcane Shield about herself just as Flemeth doused her in another burst of flame, which kept the worst of the heat from the elf, but the magical protection didn’t last. A glance showed her that the Sten was ignoring a gash in his leg and that Oghren’s beard had been shortened by inches, a few of his hairs still smoking.

Athadra’s plate was tested when the dragon tried to grab her, but just before the beast’s claws closed around her breastplate, Garahel burst over the rise and took hold of the dragon’s thumb. “No!” Fear lanced through the Warden when the mabari was tossed a dozen yards away, but she could not see him land, too preoccupied with dodging the dragon’s clutches. Steel seemed to glance off the creature’s scales rather harmlessly; even Starfang only grazed the flesh beneath. In her desperation, Athadra let her magic pour into her muscles again and she drove her blade toward Flemeth’s flank.

The dragon intercepted her thrust with a taloned hand. The star-metal blade pierced the dragonhide and emerged from the other side, but it held fast, and the elf lost her grip on the sword’s handle when Flemeth flapped her wings again. Panting and stumbling, Athadra pulled back, and felt pain caress her ribcage with every breath. In the few seconds it took the dragon to come down again, the Warden took stock, and her heart sank even further. Oghren’s sword dipped with every breath, and the Sten lay motionless in the snow. The arrows had stopped coming from behind her, but she dare not turn to see if Zevran still breathed.

Then Athadra noticed the snow twitching in the corner of her vision, just as the ground beneath her feet shuddered with the descent of the dragon. Garahel had regained his feet, though he kept one of his forelegs close to his chest, and the elf shared a moment’s glance with the dog. With a grimace she rushed forward, rolling beneath another jet of flame, and she seized the hilt of her sword with both hands. The dragon roared and reared back, bringing Athadra off the ground in a powerful swing, but the elf held on. Flemeth’s teeth found purchase on the Warden’s plate and the dragon yanked at its captive; Athadra focused on her fingers even as a few of those teeth sunk into the joints of her armour and hot blood seeped down her flanks. Morrigan’s pewter ring caught on Starfang’s grip, and Athadra pushed at the dragon’s arm with her own legs even as the beast tried to swallow her.

Athadra’s lungs emptied with a scream, tears and blood stinging her eyes, and Starfang cleaved upwards between the dragon’s fingers, suddenly free. The shock was too much for Flemeth, and nearly too much for Athadra; blackness clawed at the edges of her vision as she fell from the dragon’s mouth,  and she very nearly welcomed the final embrace which awaited her at the creature’s feet.

The elf felt her third finger throb with a sudden sear from Morrigan’s ring, and her head cleared just as she saw the dragon’s collarbones. With an instant’s margin, Athadra twisted, driving Starfang deep into the base of Flemeth’s throat, all the way to the hilt. Black blood and smoke oozed from the wound, and Athadra gripped the handle with one hand as she retrieved one of Duncan’s daggers. The air cracked with another roar from the dragon, but its wings beat more feebly, and Athadra managed to swing herself up until her legs straddled the beast’s long neck.

Athadra found another scream in her lungs as she plunged her daggers into the sides of Flemeth’s neck, slowly dragging herself up to the dragon’s head. “ _You will not have her_ ,” the Warden spat, before she gripped the arrow shaft which still sprouted from one of the beast’s eyesockets. Drawing on as much of her tainted blood as she dare, Athadra pushed the arrow deeper and claimed the dragon’s remaining eye with her left-hand blade. The dragon’s breath guttered, black blood streaming from its jaws, and the Warden tried to direct it away from the supine figure of the Sten as it came down for the last time.

The snow almost felt warm when it rose up to cushion her, and Athadra saw the iron-grey sky shrink down to a single point of light amidst a sea of darkness. She didn’t feel the Antivan’s fingers brush over her face, nor could she hear the string of curses which quickly followed. It was only another throb at the base of her finger which brought another breath into her lungs, and the pain of her ribs which drew her to sit up. Garahel limped nearer, but his eyes shone brightly with his concern.

“I thought I told you to stay with the horses,” the Warden chided him before a cough brought some blood bubbling onto her lips. Garahel whined, but did not move.

“Can you walk?” Zevran sounded nearly as exhausted as she felt, and even though he’d avoided the worst of the combat, his left arm and the left side of his leather breastplate sported wicked-looking burns.

Athadra heaved a sigh and rose to her knees, but she found her feet quickly enough when she caught sight of the Sten once more; he lay sprawled in the snow, stained red on his left side. “Lyrium,” she wheezed. Oghren was already rooting around the sack of supplies for a healing balm, so the dwarf simply brought the whole bag over to her--the mabari and the Antivan elf closed in as well. With a bit of trepidation, the Warden probed the Sten for signs of life, and she felt new tears washing her eyes when she detected the faint throbbing of his heart.

Quickly, the elf downed a vial of the glowing blue substance to recover her mana, and she healed herself enough to be of use. Her fingers guided the blue-green healing light over the Sten’s leg, where Flemeth’s claws had cut even more deeply than she’d feared, and it took Athadra several minutes to knit the veins and muscles back together. Sweat crested on her brow as she reworked his flesh, but when she’d sealed his leg, she retrieved her runed waterskin. “Make him drink,” she said. “He should come around in a few minutes.”

The Warden healed them all in turn, and finished up with a second pass at her own injuries; she and the Sten would carry scars from the battle, but the other three--including the dog--were more fortunate. Only when the Qunari roused himself and nodded his gratitude did Athadra moe to retrieve her weapons, and by the time she’d worked her three blades from the dragon’s flesh, the sun had started its descent in the Northwestern sky.

A curious thought struck Athadra as she stepped away from the dragon; its heart lay still, yet it had not turned back into the body she’d come to know as Flemeth. The corpse did not move, even after the elf broke through the hut’s door and retrieved the woman’s true grimoire. She took nothing else, even as her stomach cried for some of the mutton hanging by the fireplace. Instead, Athadra led her companions from the frozen island, seeking out the abandoned horses. She sensed darkspawn encroaching from the South, and she did not want to be overrun by them.


	46. I Dreamed A Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Warden and her smaller band of cohorts return from their mission, all fairly the worse for wear. Athadra tests the bounds of Alistair's faith once more, before Friga does her best to mend the damage incurred in subduing Flemeth. Rather than resting after her labours, however, the Commander of the Grey faces a moment of crisis as trying as any she's yet dealt with.

“Thank the Maker!” Alistair sounded as relieved as he had the very first time Athadra had emerged from Flemeth’s hut, just after all of his friends had been killed by Loghain’s betrayal. He stood waiting at the top of Redcliffe’s entrance to the Imperial Highway, with Leliana and Shale to either side of him. “Morrigan said it got...bad,” he explained.

The horses were blown and just as hungry as Athadra and the rest of her troop, but the destriers had managed to carry them through Ostagar and up the Highway in a mere three days, stopping to rest only once when the Warden could not fight her exhaustion. “It did,” Athadra said simply, swinging down from her black steed. “Take him...I don’t think he likes me at the moment.” She handed the reins over to her fellow Grey Warden, and hobbled down the steep ramp under her own power.

“We were just about to set out after you,” Alistair said, as he eased the horse into a slow walk. The others followed, conversing amongst themselves, and the two Wardens pressed ahead. “Morrigan decided not to come, for some reason,” he said lightly. “Even though she said she could feel you when you were fighting.”

“I know,” Athadra replied, rubbing her thumb along the ring again. “That’s between us.”

Alistair shrugged. “That’s the last battle you face without me,” he demanded. “I hate to say it, but the witch is...right. We’re ending this Blight together, or not at all.”

The Warden looked up at her confederate warily. “Alistair...”

“I know, I know,” he said. “Without me, Ferelden has no king, more civil war, blah blah...” The larger Warden shook his head. “But without you, there is no Ferelden to be needing a king. So we need each other.”

Against her instinct, Athadra actually felt her lips curving into a smile. “I guess we do,” she admitted. “Just don’t tell the others I said so, or I’ll kill you, Archdemon or no.”

“Got it,” Alistair shot back. Then, after a moment, “So what was it like?”

Athadra frowned. “Let’s just say that the Archdemon will be the second dragon I have to bring down,” she said. “Flemeth could turn into one...or she was one, and could appear human at will...or something else entirely.” The Warden shrugged and hissed, pressing an arm to her side. “Whatever it was nearly bit me in half before I took it down. The Sten took it hard, too.”

Alistair let out a whistle as he took in the news, and he looked back to see the giant actually leaning on Shale for support. “I guess she earned her reputation,” he breathed. “As luck would have it, though, that mage you brought to take care of Connor is an excellent healer. She helped out with an accident at the dry dock a couple of days ago...one of the orphans. She fixed his leg right up.”

“And what did the revered mother have to say to that?” The elf gave a half-hearted salute to the knight on duty at the portcullis when the man bowed low.

“Oh, the usual,” Alistair sighed. “Magic existing to serve man, and all that...you’d think healing a child was just in that spirit.”

“Aye,” Athadra said. “Someone will have to look into that, one day,” she said vaguely, though she gave the other Warden a pointed glance.

“That someone being...me, I take it?” He laughed. “I’m no theologian and I’ve not read the books from the Circle, but I seem to remember that revered mothers take their marching orders from grand clerics...and they listen to the Divine, in Val Royeaux. Not to any king.”

“Well,” Athadra breathed. “The Tevinters have the Black Divine, and Orlais has the White Divine. Maybe Ferelden can get a Grey Divine, to top them off?”

Alistair chuckled, until he noticed that the smaller Warden wasn’t smiling. “Wait...you’re serious?”

“I am,” the elf confirmed.

“That’s...heresy, Athadra,” Alistair pointed out, soberly. “Even to think it.”

The Warden shrugged. “I’m not suggesting you run naked through the streets babbling about overthrowing the Grand Cathedral like an idiot,” she countered. “But you believe that Andraste was born in Denerim, and we saw what many will think are Her ashes in the Frostbacks, on the other side of Ferelden. Do you think it’ll be so difficult to convince Fereldans to accept a Fereldan Chantry? One that lets mages serve their country like any other citizen?”

“I don’t know,” Alistair whispered. “After what we saw in the Circle Tower...”

“Which came about because the mages there are treated worse than cattle,” Athadra asserted. “The Tevinters kept my people in bondage for a dozen Ages before Andraste came along...and in Her name, mages like me have been made to pay for that for nearly as long. There has to be a middle way.”

“I can see your point,” Alistair conceded. “Really, I can. And I promise that I’ll think about it...but I’m not even a king, yet. I may never be, if the darkspawn get their way.”

Athadra nodded. “We’ll discuss it later,” she promised, and she crossed the castle’s bailey in silence once Alistair went to stable her horse. Garahel, the Sten, Zevran, and Oghren all followed her up the stairs to the entrance hall, and she called a servant to rouse Friga to tend to them.

The Avvar mage brought Connor along with her; they both wore tunics and breeches, rather than the robes they’d brought from the Circle. “I hear you’ve had an adventure,” Friga said, by way of greeting.

“Did you get hurt, Miss Athadra?” The boy seemed both concerned and curious.

“You might say that,” the elf replied, and she looked to the other woman. “I did what I could, but I weren’t at me best.”

Friga nodded and did a quick check over each of them. “You all need to eat and a few good nights of rest,” she declared. “Your arm could use another round of healing,” she told Zevran, who offered to show her to his room immediately. “And you,” the healer regarded Athadra, “will need to have a couple of ribs reset. How’d you manage to break them with that armour on?”

The Warden’s plate gleamed in the candlelight, tarnished by blood and dirt but unmarred by any scratches.  “Dragon,” she said simply, which caused Connor to gasp and set some of the servants to whispering. Friga paled a bit and glanced at each of them in their turn.

“I’m surprised any of you are still alive, then. Unless you’re Nevarran?” The country boasted the best dragonslayers in Thedas.

“My father might have been,” Zevran pointed out, though he offered no more.

“Eat,” Friga told them all, just as food arrived from the kitchens. “Especially you,” she told the Sten. “And you,” she added, glancing pointedly at Garahel.

An hour later, Athadra pushed her way into her bedchamber, closely followed by the other mage. Morrigan looked up from her desk, her face flickering when she noticed the healer. “How did you fare?”

The Warden struggled out of her breastplate, but didn’t bother with the rest of her armour. “I’ve done worse,” she said casually, moving to the bed. “Once.”

Morrigan’s eyes narrowed and she nodded. “What do you require?”

Friga stepped forward. “We’ll need to break her ribs on both sides, so that I can heal them. Are you strong enough?”

“I’ll do it,” Athadra called, raising a gauntleted fist. “Just tell me where.” The healer came closer and ran her fingers along the elf’s sides, touching two places on Athadra’s left flank and on on her right. The Warden took a series of shallow breaths and closed her eyes; she heard a crack when her knuckle made contact with the gnarled bone, and she didn’t pause, striking home a second time, and then a third. The pain was intense but short-lived, as Friga’s healing tendrils reset the bones in their proper position.

“Good as new,” the woman claimed. “And try not to give any more dragons indigestion, while you’re at it, Commander.” With that, Friga bowed and retreated from the room.

Silence settled over the room for a few long moments as Athadra simply enjoyed being able to breathe freely once again and Morrigan sat at the desk. “The book’s in my pack,” Athadra told the high ceiling. The Wilds-witch moved to retrieve it, yet still she did not speak. Athadra propped herself up onto her elbows. “Feel free to keep ignoring me,” she sing-songed, and Morrigan startled.

“I...apologize,” the mage said. “You have my thanks, Athadra.”

The Warden heard Flemeth’s accusation as though breathed against her neck, that Morrigan had already betrayed her, and would again. She shook her head to ward the thought off, but the Wilds-witch evidently took the gesture more personally.

“Is my gratitude insufficient, then?” Morrigan’s brow arched, her lips curling into a tight frown.

“What?” Athadra blinked, sitting up straighter. “I didn’t mean--”

“I wish to ask a question of you,” Morrigan cut in, her voice shaking just slightly.

The Warden’s voice died in her throat, and so she merely nodded. Her stomach felt like it had just before she’d confronted Flemeth.

“I would like to know your opinion of our current...arrangement.”

Athadra swallowed. “My opinion?”

Morrigan’s head tilted forward. “Indeed. We have grown...comfortable with one another. I must know if you’ve developed an attachment.”

“An attachment,” Athadra echoed dully. Her thumb pushed on the pewter ring until it bit into the flesh of her finger. She could still imagine the dragon’s teeth searing into her flanks.

“You knew my terms when we set down this path,” the Wilds-witch said. “You must tell me if your feelings have deepened.”

The Warden heard her own voice echoing in the cold, and she remembered the shadow of sympathy which seemed to pass over Flemeth’s face when the elf had spoken of her love for Flemeth’s daughter. “And if they have?”

A grimace passed over Morrigan’s lips. “You dodge the question, which is answer enough.”

Athadra rose to her feet. “I told your mother how I felt, before I killed her for you. Before she nearly killed me.” Her voice had risen sharply, sudden anger threatening to overwhelm her fear...yet still, the Warden could not form the words her companion sought.

Morrigan’s eyes glistened oddly in the candlelight. “I warned you, did I not? That this folly, this weakness, would drive me mad. Yet you insisted on pretending that we were merely physical.” She stood as well, and Athadra’s eyes lifted to keep her face in view. “And now you have jeopardised your mission on my account, as I knew you would.”

The Warden’s fingers clenched at her sides, her fingernails digging into her palms. “So I risked my life to prove a point?”

“In part,” Morrigan replied, her own voice raising an octave. “The task needed done, and I am grateful, truly. But you were foolish to think that our...tryst...could come before your duty to end the Blight. As you yourself swore ‘twould not, when first we lay together.”

Athadra’s mouth opened, but no words came; her gut clenched as tightly as though a knee had been planted there. Instead she turned and paced toward the fireplace, so that the Wilds-witch could not see the tears at her cheeks. “Is that what I am to you, then?”  She worried at the pewter ring with her right index finger and thumb, staring into the dancing flames.

Morrigan moved a bit closer, but the Warden did not turn. “I would not have given you the ring, were that so.” Her voice had softened and thickened. “‘Twas not easy, knowing that your heart weakened, and why...and being unable to strengthen it.”

As the Wilds-witch spoke, Athadra’s fists clenched again. “Say it,” she breathed toward the fire. “If you think it be weak, show some courage yourself, for once.” Finally the elf turned, her cheeks glittering. She saw that Morrigan’s did not stand dry, either.

“If you wish it,” Morrigan breathed. “I have allowed you into my heart, Athadra. And you must see the folly in that, for the both of us, surely.”

“What would you have me do, then? I did not set out to ensnare you,” the Warden objected. “And you’ve made it clearer than Qunari glass that you didn’t intend me to love you.”

Morrigan shut her eyes for a long moment, and when they blinked open again, her tears had gone. “Release me,” she insisted. “Tell me that you wish to end this.” She drew in a long breath. “Make me believe you, and I...will be grateful.”

Athadra’s eyes were still wet, and she did not answer at once. “I...cannot,” she admitted, after a handful of heartbeats. “Flemeth offered to let me take the book and claim her dead,” the Warden said. “I wanted to...more than I could even admit to myself. But I knew that I couldn’t lie to you, Morrigan.” Her lips creased into a small smile. “You gave me strength, when I thought I had none.”

“Then I will go, if I must,” Morrigan replied, after a pregnant pause. “If you tell me to go.” She had backed up to the door, her pack hanging from her shoulder, but the Wilds-witch did not look anxious to turn away.

Athadra’s tongue felt too heavy to form proper words for a moment, and she swallowed a sob. “You had better,” she managed. “But remember that I’ve already slain one Witch of the Wilds. I beg you never give me cause to slay another.”

Morrigan lowered her head, easing the door open behind her. The woman gave Athadra one more long look from beneath her bangs, and without another word, she slipped away. The door’s latch clicked softly, and the Warden stood motionless for a heartbeat. Then she sprinted to the door, nearly tearing it from its hinges in her haste to reach the Wilds-witch, to beg her to come back, to convince her that their folly was worth the risk.

The hall stood empty. It had been the merest second between the door’s closing and Athadra’s pursuit, but Morrigan was simply gone, as though she’d never graced the corridor. Even as the elf’s feet carried her around the bend and up the farther hall, she knew that she wouldn’t find the witch, and when she reached the head of the stairs Athadra’s chest felt as hollow as the air around her.

“Whatcha need, boss?” Oghren asked, evidently surprised by her knock at the door.

Athadra’s crimson eyes flashed to the Antivan elf, who sat cleaning his nails with a fine dagger. “I need Zevran tonight,” she answered. “He’ll be needing Friga in the morning.”

The assassin sat up straighter and looked closely at the Warden, his expression inscrutable. “As you like,” he said after a pause, and though he must have seen the hunger burning in Athadra’s eyes, the elf rose to follow her.


	47. Rumours of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fallout from Morrigan's sudden departure leaves Athadra listless for a few days, until she develops a plan to take her anger out on the darkspawn ravaging the Hinterlands. Despite her renewed solitude, the Warden cannot shirk her duty, even if her actions anger those she's sworn to protect.

The blood upon Athadra’s wall slowly turned brown as the hours crept into days. She had forbidden the servants from washing it away, for as long as she could see the stain, she could keep the anger and pain of Morrigan’s departure at bay. The Warden had nearly killed Zevran, with her daggers and her fists, but the Antivan took as much pain as she cared to give him and seemed to welcome even more.

The heat of his blood helped to fill the howling wilderness in Athadra’s chest, at least that night. She hadn’t let him touch her, even to offer his own comfort after Friga had brought him back from the brink. She didn’t speak to anyone for days afterward, only emerging one mid-morning when her hunger finally drove her from her inner exile.

“You look ready for the Void,” Alistair called, still at the breakfast table. He either didn’t know or politely ignored the reason for Athadra’s disheveled appearance.

The elf snatched up a pot of ale and tilted it back, gulping until the last dregs trailed down her lips. She wanted to retch it all back up, but her stomach held nothing to bring it out. “She’s gone,” the Warden said at last, her knees shaking as she finally sat down. Oghren guffawed, clearly impressed, and moved to follow her example.

“Almost a week ago, now,” Alistair observed. “It’ll be first day of Haring, tomorrow.”

Athadra grunted, unimpressed that the would-be templar could keep track of the days better than she. She chased the pot of ale with some eggs and burnt bread, which didn’t settle her stomach any better, but by then she was too hungry to give the sustenance up.

“I was going to try to talk to you, but the assassin talked me out of it,” Alistair continued after a few minutes’ uncomfortable silence, though his tone betrayed that he was blissfully unaware of why Zevran might have given him such caution. “Do you want to talk about it? I know you two--”

“You know nothing,” Athadra said at last. She turned a bit too quickly on the bench and had to grip the table to keep herself from falling off, but her eyes were clear when she found his gaze. “So do as the Chantry says, and don’t ask any questions. You’re better off that way.”

Oghren disappeared with hardly a belch to excuse himself with, and Alistair leaned away from Athadra’s pointing finger. “Have you...ever had anything to drink before? Alcoholic, I mean.”

The incongruity of the question threw the Warden for a moment; she thought back and had to shake her head, which she came to regret almost immediately, as she had to renew her grip on the table. A chuckle clawed its way past her throat. “It tasted like piss, but if it always makes the walls move like that, I can see why the shems like it so much.”

“Yes, well, you shouldn’t have any more...at least not today. You’d be too embarassed if you passed out and choked on your own vomit.”

Athadra’s budding smile crashed. “Don’t tempt me,” she warned. Still, the light-headedness which her impulse had brought on wasn’t entirely pleasant, and she spent much of the afternoon back in her room, drinking from her waterskin until the sensation settled down. That evening, after everyone else had taken supper, Athadra sought out Alistair again to inform him that they were setting out the next morning.

“Where to?” Alistair asked, framed by his doorway. “After you-know-who?”

“No,” she answered, thumbing the pewter ring on her left third finger. “We’re going to do our jobs.” Morrigan thought herself a distraction from Athadra’s task, and now the Warden had little to keep her from it.

“But the Dalish won’t be able to march an army in the winter,” the taller Warden pointed out. “We were going to wait until some time in Wintersend.”

Athadra nodded. “Aye, we’ll all go out to the Brecilian Forest come the thaw,” she promised. “But you and me are going on an adventure.”

“Just the pair of us?” Alistair raised a brow, and the elf heard rustling from behind him. Evidently, he and Leliana had reconciled, which didn’t precisely make Athadra feel any better.

“I don’t care,” she answered. “I want to show everybody that the Wardens haven’t given up on Ferelden. When I rode down to the Wilds and back, I passed by lots of darkspawn on my way. I don’t feel like running from them anymore.” The Warden shook her head. “I want to kill them all.”

Alistair took a long breath. “Are you sure that’s all you want to kill?”

“No,” Athadra replied. “Meet me in the bailey in the morning. Let the others know, if you want.” Alistair nodded, and the elf heard Leliana swear to come along as she turned to go back to her room. The bed still felt too large, but it was already easier for her to get to sleep.

The Warden felt less guilty for jolting awake with a scream dying on her lips, but when she realized why her nightmares no longer disturbed anyone else, the hollow in her chest threatened to engulf her anew. Somehow she found the motivation to pull herself out of bed, though. Her plate sat heavily on her shoulders once she donned it, and once more she felt the griffon emblem on her chest was as much a curse as a point of pride. Garahel gave her a steadying whuff, and together they moved through the castle.

Athadra grunted when she saw that each of her remaining companions stood ready for her in the bailey. “Sodding fools,” she breathed to herself, but she was surprised at the smirk which crept onto her lips. “None of you have to follow me,” she said a bit more loudly this time. “I don’t intend to cut through the darkspawn to reach some end which they obscure. Alistair and I are immune to the taint. None of you are.”

“If we lived through the Deep Roads,” Leliana offered, “we can survive facing them on the surface.”

The Warden shrugged. “The Deep Roads were practically empty. Where we head, the monsters will make legions.” Slowly she made her way down the steps. “Come, if you want. Or stay here until we can gather the last of our allies for the battle to come. I’ll not think any less of you.”

Oghren grunted. “I been killin’ darkspawn since you were givin’ your mamma indigestion,” he boasted. “Er...Commander,” he added, when the Warden’s brow rose. Yet his comment tore a laugh from her breast.

“I have no flesh to mar with the taint,” Shale pointed out. “Let us grind them into a fine paste.” Leliana and Zevran both lent their voices to the chorus. The Sten’s nod spoke volumes as well.

Alistair stepped forward and stood beside his fellow Warden. “You all know the risks,” he said. “But we will have to face the horde soon, one way or another. Let’s give them a reason to have second thoughts about the battle to come.”

Athadra nearly laughed again, surprised by the sudden verve that Alistair evinced. “If something bleeds, it can feel terror,” she added with a hint of a snarl. “I want the bastards to fear me.” She pushed through her companions and marched across the bridge afoot; with Alistair beside her, it wouldn’t be long before their tainted blood attracted enough darkspawn to make their sortie interesting, and she had no intention of retreating.

The Warden led them South over frozen forest paths for half a day before her blood began its familiar tingling, and she announced the danger ahead by drawing Starfang and taking off at a run. A nearby farmhold played host to a knot of genlocks and an ogre, attended by a few unlucky elves. The corruption hadn’t killed them, but it had stolen their minds and rotted their bodies, turning them into thralls of the tainted creatures. They rose to the beasts’ defence, so Athadra cut them down first, her revulsion twisting into rage. Alistair caught up with her as she issued a challenge to the huge horn-head, and he had to fight to keep the smaller darkspawn from taking her untended flanks.

Athadra called forth fire and lightning to clear her path to the ogre, which looked ready to charge directly toward her, its horns lowering ominously. The elf surged forward and leapt straight up when those horns threatened to gore her; she turned her blade downward, nearly scything through the monster’s neck as she somersaulted. It fell to the ground and did not rise, but the Warden did not even acknowledge her victory--instead she pressed on, bringing death to all the darkspawn within Starfang’s reach. By the time the sun began sinking beneath the Frostbacks, only a few genlocks had escaped her wrath.

“Should we make camp?” Alistair looked at the corpses around them. “Far away from here, I hope.”

The Warden shook her head. “We’ll cleanse the ground with fire. The barn and the house, too.” She didn’t want to see anyone try to reclaim this land while the tainted corpses poisoned it. Alistair had no objections, and so they set to work; Leliana and Zevran wrapped soiled rags around several of their arrowheads and Athadra lit one for each of them, so that they could burn the structures from afar. The elf used her blood to summon a powerful inferno which scorched the snow and the freezing corpses, and by the time the Wardens were satisfied, the moon had climbed high into the ground.

That night Athadra’s troop returned to the castle, but they set off again in the late morning, with enough food for a week’s journey. The Warden led them East, toward Lothering and the rest of the bannorn. More darkspawn bands fell before them, but this excursion also saw them rescue a caravan of refugees fleeing the hinterlands. Athadra saw that two women and an adolescent boy were sick with the darkspawn’s corruption; milky eyes and black veins beneath their skin were sign enough.

“You can find refuge in Redcliffe,” she announced, “except them.” When she looked to her fellow Warden, she could see that he had little stomach for what must be done, though he would offer no hope for the condemned. The apparent leader of the caravan, a man with a ruddy, greying beard, stepped forward.

“Josiah’s a healthy lad,” he said. “I’ve known him and his mum their whole lives. They can get better, if they get some food.”

Athadra shook her head, managing to show a sympathy she didn’t really feel. “Nay,” she told him. “They’re dead already, if they’re lucky. Or they’ll lose their minds and wander off to join the horde.”

“But the Grey Wardens are immune, or so it’s said,” he countered. “There’re only seven of you in the whole country.” Garahel barked argumentatively, but the man mistook it for aggression, and he shrunk back.

The Warden closed her eyes, suddenly remembering her dank cell in the Circle Tower again--after Drass had returned to his post outside her door. Duncan stood in the opposite corner, his face hard as he told her that Knight-Commander Greagoir and First Enchanter Irving had agreed to release her into his custody. The then-Commander made it very plain to the elf that he was not rescuing her, per se; the quickness of her Harrowing and her steadfastness with Jowan had convinced him of her worth, and without these facts, she would surely have been bound for Aonar. She had nearly forgotten the conversation, given what had come before, and all that came after it. “I cannot accept a recruit out of pity,” Athadra said at last. In truth, she knew that she couldn’t make them into Grey Wardens even if she’d wished to. She turned her gaze onto the ill-fated trio. “Becoming a Grey Warden is not a cure for anything. We are not soldiers. We are weapons forged with a single purpose. I’m sorry, but none of you would strengthen our cause.”

The man looked to argue further, but the Warden put up a hand and turned to Alistair. “Take this man and those he leads back to the Highway. I’ll rejoin you as soon as I can.”

“Of course,” he replied heavily, and clapped his hands. “Okay, everyone! Follow me.” He sounded almost confident enough to pull it off, but Athadra raised Starfang, just in case anyone else decided to protest. The old red-haired man looked from the Warden to the boy he’d defended and turned away, pain etched on his features. When he followed the tall Warden in the golden armour, the rest of his charges went along with him, whispering and talking amongst themselves.

Athadra stepped between the fleeing group and Josiah’s. The boy could stand unaided, but his mother and their companion had to lean upon one another for support, and they all looked terrified. The Warden did not speak until she no longer saw Shale and Zevran taking up the caravan’s rear. When even the elves amongst the refugees were out of earshot, she turned back to face the sick humans. “Do you believe in the Maker?” Something within her made her soften the question.

The boy nodded. “And in Andraste, His holy bride,” he affirmed.

Athadra breathed a sigh. “Then you should make your peace with Him, for He has called you home.” She didn’t know why she concealed her own lack of faith, but the Warden waited patiently as the three conferred and began to pray. They wept, and one of the women begged again for her life. She called herself Astrid, and she claimed she’d be a good Warden.

“I am sorry, Astrid,” Athadra replied, hearing Duncan’s voice in her ear. He’d said the same words to Ser Jory, and in the same tone, when the knight had thought to refuse the honour at the last minute. It felt odd that Athadra had to deny these people the opportunity. With another long sigh, the Warden planted her sword into the frozen ground and approached Josiah, his mother, and Astrid. Already the boy’s mother had lain down in the snow, dark tendrils crawling up her neck, but the tears still flowed from her eyes. “I’ll burn you all,” she promised, looking at each of them in turn.

Josiah opened his mouth, but Athadra would never know whether he meant to speak thanks or further pleas for their lives; she drew both daggers, the left one with her right hand, the right with her left, and in a heartbeat she spread her arms wide. The blades cut deeply into Josiah and Astrid’s throats, and they fell almost immediately. The Warden brought her daggers down upon the boy’s mother, the metal slicing through each of her shoulders and pressing deep into her torso. All three lay dead upon the snow when Athadra regained her feet and reclaimed Starfang from its frigid sheath.

True to her word, though not out of piety, Athadra charred their bodies to cinders and then moved to catch up with Alistair and the rest of her company. It proved fairly easy, burdened by refugees as they were. Arl Eamon was not pleased that eighteen strangers now sought to call Redcliffe home, but Athadra and Alistair both pointed out that at least that many houses stood empty in the village, and Bann Teagan himself outlined the political benefits of sheltering Fereldans against the Blight and the civil war both. Murdock rose to the challenge and put the healthy men and women to work, or to training at arms.

Athadra’s band spent the rest of Haring crisscrossing the Western Hinterlands, laying waste to  hundreds of darkspawn and saving dozens of people. Athadra had to kill a few more tainted civilians, as well, which made her presence in Redcliffe a bit more contentious than it had been since the night she’d helped to save the village. The natives still greeted her with the title she’d earned, but she did not insist the newcomers adopt it.

The second week of Wintersend brought a last flurry of snow which turned to rain, and when it relented, the gully’s red clay stood exposed. “It’s time,” Athadra pronounced, when she saw the yellowed grass of the castle’s bailey. Along with Alistair and the others, she mounted the Imperial Highway to the East once more, at last intent on the Brecilian Forest and the last of the allies their treaties promised.


	48. Slings and Arrows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At long last, the Wardens seek out the clan of Dalish elves which have overwintered in the Brecilian Forest. Of course, when Athadra arrives, she finds an entirely new mess that needs sorting before she can make good on the last of her set of treaties.

Athadra heard bows stretching taut, though she couldn’t see them through the trees. Her heartbeat quickened, and she held up a hand, calling her companions to a halt. Beside her, Zevran’s ears twitched and he glanced about, trying to catch sight of the arrowheads they both knew were trained on the party. The Warden told herself that Zevran stood with her because he was another elf, and the pair of them might be accepted more quickly by the wary folk they sought. She still hadn’t allowed the Antivan to touch her, even though he had come to frequent her bedchamber in between raids on the horde, and only a few of those visits had entailed renewing the bloodstain on her floor. The rest were passed with drink and conversation--the assassin was even teaching her to play a card game called _Wicked Grace_ , which seemed to test the player’s skill at sleight of hand more than anything else. Gradually, between slaughtering as many darkspawn as she could find and gambling with Zevran, she felt the weight of Morrigan’s pewter ring grow easier to bear.

“ _Andaran atishan_ ,” Athadra called out, though she dared not speak any more of the tongue she’d learnt from her former lover; if the Dalish were indeed afoot, they wouldn’t be able to understand it, and might not take kindly to her exposing their ignorance.

A tall elf emerged from behind a tree, her hands empty. Two subordinates followed, their arrows trained on the Warden. “You do not live here,” the woman pointed out. “Though you both are Elvhen, you aren’t of my clan.” Her accent was unmistakably Dalish, as were the red-brown tattoos of her face. “What business have you with the _Dar’Zathra_?”

“We’re Grey Wardens, come as friends, to face a common foe in the darkspawn.” Athadra spread both hands wide and stepped toward the woman. “I am called Athadra, Commander of the Grey in Ferelden.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “I do not believe you,” she said bluntly. “You claim a Dalish name and generalship of an order I know to be lost. Begone from here, or state your true purpose.”

Athadra’s eyes narrowed in their turn. “All of the Wardens were felled at Ostagar,” she conceded, “except two. Me and the human man behind me. He’s got treaties that the Keepers of almost all the clans signed, some four Ages ago, at the great Arlathvhen after Garahel slew the Archdemon and ended the Fourth Blight.”

The woman considered the Warden’s words carefully, her sneer flickering for a moment. “I’ll take you to the Keeper. He’ll know the truth of your claims. Tread carefully.”

Athadra nodded and gestured for Alistair to take his place to her left as she followed the watch-woman into a large semi-clearing. Her breath caught as she saw the elven land-ships called aravel, which the Dalish used to cross Thedas, as well as the many wooden and stone figures of elven gods and goddesses sprinkled around the encampment.

Ahead of them, a bald-headed elf with a knotted staff turned. “Why have you abandoned your post, Mithra?” His face was almost perfectly smooth, though his ears had at least three kinks in them, which spoke of great age.

“I am sorry, Keeper,” the woman replied with a short bow. “These travelers claim to be Grey Wardens and their companions, seeking aid. I have warned them away, but they insisted. One of the shemlen says he has a treaty.”

The Keeper took in the motley company with a mixture of amusement and exasperation; his eyes caught on Zevran’s face, specifically the tattoos which spindled up each of his cheeks. “From which clan do you come?”

The assassin’s brow rose, and he shook his head. “I was born in Antiva City, ser Keeper. I never learned which clan my mother claimed.”

Mithra tilted her head at the Warden. “This one calls herself Athadra.”

Before the Keeper could ask her, Athadra spoke up. “My grandad,” she said. “He were called Denath’ena.” The Warden could tell that the name caught the Keeper’s attention, and he turned back to the guard.

“Thank you, Mithra. Return to your post.” The woman bowed once more and left with her two subordinates. “Many years ago I knew of a First by that name. He was a...good man, but he made a mistake.”

The Warden’s eyes widened. “You’re saying you knew my grandad?”

The Keeper shrugged. “I might have done, in a small way. All I know is that a magical elf by that name was exiled from Clan Peashal nearly fifty years ago, under...questionable circumstances. I know no more.” When Athadra nodded, he continued. “I call myself Zathrian,” he informed them, and his eyes lit upon Alistair. “I believe you have something for me?” The taller Warden blinked and nodded, and Zathrian handled the ancient sheaf of parchment with care. His chestnut eyes caught on a line and he smiled. “Ahh, yes. Here is my signature.”

“But these were written in the Exalted Age,” Alistair pointed out, stowing the parchment with its siblings beneath his breastplate.

An elven woman with a staff and furred robes stepped forward beside the Keeper. “In 5:35 Exalted, by your calendar,” she said. Her voice had more than a subtle tinge of the King’s Tongue to it, even more so than Athadra’s. “On the tenth day of Firstfall, just after sunset. Fifteen years and three days after the renowned warrior Garahel slew the Archdemon Andoral, and one year after Zathrian became Keeper of this clan.”

Zathrian lowered his head. “Very good, Lanaya.” He gestured from the woman to the newcomers. “This is my First. Lanaya, these are Grey Wardens, led by a grandaughter of the Dales who calls herself Athadra.” Lanaya nodded at the Wardens, and moved back to the Keeper’s aravel. Zathrian’s expression grew more concerned. “I sensed the Blight’s corruption in the South last summer--I had planned to lead us through the Korcari Wilds and into the Arbor Wilds of the Dales before the snows came, but the darkspawn blocked the way.”

“You could have turned North,” Zevran pointed out.

Zathrian shook his head. “That would have been impossible. Clan Sabrae had already taken that route, through the midlands of Ferelden. The shemlen lords would not have taken kindly to two elven clans picking over their forests.” He looked around. “This forest is sufficiently remote that shemlen are scarce and game is plentiful, even when the snows come. We passed much of the season unmolested, and I would have gathered our halla more than a week ago, but...” He nodded to a nearby area that had nearly two dozen young elves laying on cots, moaning under their breaths or battling fever dreams.

“Darkspawn?” Athadra couldn’t sense any taint nearby, but from this distance, she couldn’t tell the difference between the Dalish elves’ facial tattoos and the telltale tendrils of the corruption.

Zathrian breathed a sigh. “It wasn’t,” he replied. “There are a few of the fiends in the forest, but we have kept them at bay. This scourge has a source no less rapacious, all the same.” He closed his eyes once more for a long moment. When he opened them again, Athadra thought they looked wet, but he pressed on. “The forest around us is ancient and wild. It has seen much blood water its trees, and so creatures walk here that the rest of Ferelden has not seen in living memory. One such example is a pack of werewolves.”

Alistair tried to scoff, but Athadra elbowed him. The rest of the party took his example and kept quiet. “The shems think all the werewolves dead, slain by the ancient hero called Dane, in the Black Age.”

“They are mistaken,” Zathrian replied. “Long have I known of the werewolves’ presence in the forest, but they normally lurk much deeper in than even the People willingly go. So long on the outskirts must have tempted them, however, for they have attacked our hunters whenever they try to penetrate further into the trees. You can see the results.”

“Will the hunters die?” Athadra hoped she sounded sympathetic, and not simply disappointed.

“They will,” Zathrian confirmed. “But not before turning into the wretched beasts themselves, and forcing us to slay them. So you see, even though I am a signatory to your accord, I cannot help you. The Creators have seen fit to claim nearly half of my hunters. Probably more, before we can see them to grass and head North.”

Athadra’s brow drew down. “Is there no way to cure them?”

That brought a wry grin to the Keeper’s lips. “The curse which afflicts the werewolves is passed in the blood, much like the darkspawn taint, but also by scratches and bites. It is thought that there is no relief once bitten, but I believe I know of a way.” When the Warden nodded, he went on. “The pack in this forest are led by a white wolf, which calls itself Witherfang. It’s this wolf’s blood that carries the curse. If you bring me Witherfang’s heart, I think I can counter it.”

Shale scoffed. “Has it not tried this solution itself?”

Zathrian’s eyes widened in surprise, but he reined in his surprise quickly. “That is why so many lay afflicted,” he explained. “My people are adept with the bow and the shadows. Yet Witherfang hides behind dozens of wolf-men, who know the forest even better than we, and have no fear. The task is thus beyond us.”

“But not beyond me,” Athadra finished for him. “Nor those who travel with me.”

The Keeper’s gaze swept over the warriors who stood before him, and he nodded. “Though fewer in number, I believe you can reach Witherfang and fetch its heart for me. Do this thing, and I will gladly lend my clan’s support to your cause. If you cannot, I will spread word to the other clans, and we will offer aid when and how we can. Have we an understanding, Commander?” He glanced pointedly at the griffon which graced Athadra’s chest piece, answering her unasked query about how he’d guessed her title.

The Warden held out a hand. “We do,” she confirmed. “Archers can fell darkspawn as well as any warrior, if possessed with the skill of the Dales.” Having the shemlen owe the Dalish might come in handy in the future, as well.

The Keeper clasped her forearm and nodded. “It pleases me to hear you say so, truly. Beyond my aravel, you will find our craftsmaster, Varathorn. He’s set aside some equipment salvaged from our botched raid that you may use, and he’ll be glad to truck with you as well. When you’re ready, follow the path into the thicker trees...you’ll not have to walk long before being set upon, I imagine. Creators’ speed on your journey.”

Athadra dipped her head in a slight bow, and Zathrian returned to his business, conferring with his First in low whispers. The Warden turned to her companions. “It looks like we’ll have a break from killing darkspawn, but we’ll all need to be careful, now. Anyone who doesn’t want to risk a werewolf’s bite can stay back here.”

Leliana was the first to step forward. “If you three are going, count me in. If the worst comes, the Keeper can cure us along with his people, surely.”

“If a cure is to be had,” Alistair pointed out, clearly torn between having her along and keeping her safe. “But we can worry about that...later. Just be careful.”

The Orlesian nodded. “If this Varathorn has enough arrows, I should be fine.”

“You can take mine, as well,” Zevran offered. “I will use my daggers, instead.” Athadra suppressed a sudden urge to object; he’d fought with daggers against everything but the darkspawn, after all, and he was easily as lethal with them as any warrior with a sword.

Oghren and the Sten did not voice objection, and Shale pronounced her confidence in her own immunity to the curse as she’d done with the taint, before. Garahel was as eager as always. “Very well,” Athadra said. “Let’s see what this craftsmaster has for us.”

Varathorn was eager to help; he supplied Leliana with three quivers of arrows. She and the Antivan also got some new boots, and Athadra asked after some food they might take along into the forest, in case the search for Witherfang took too long. The craftsmaster pointed them to the campfire, where a grown elf sat observing children as they cured meat and sorted berries. She gave Varathorn her thanks, and once her company had gathered enough food to see them for a couple of days, the Warden led the way into the depths of the Brecilian Forest.


	49. Old Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athadra has tracked the werewolves back to Witherfang's lair, but all is not as Zathrian would have it. The Wardens are given the choice between vengeance and resolution, once again called upon to settle disputes only tangentially related to their duties against the Blight.

“So you’re telling me,” Athadra wondered aloud, surrounded as she was by werewolves and facing a tree-legged spirit whom the wolves had dubbed the Lady of the Forest, “that the curse were Zathrian’s doing?” She stood in the bowels of an ancient temple, Tevinter or elven from before the days of Arlathan, which served as the spirit’s home and the werewolves’ shelter. The Warden and her companions had cut through many of the beasts to get here, along with two separate knots of darkspawn and even a few bears and possessed trees over the course of the previous day. Her question had an urgency driven by the gash across her left palm, courtesy of a werewolf she’d thought dead. The cut thus far resisted her best attempts to heal it, but her blood did not yet burn as the elven hunters’ did.

“Not entirely,” came the ethereal voice of the Lady of the Forest. She had the rough form of a human, but her skin was the pale green of sunlight through a thick canopy of leaves, and her limbs twisted into tree branches past her elbows and knees.

Swiftrunner, one of the werewolves whose rage the Lady of the Forest had brought under control, stepped forward. “Many years ago, a small settlement of humans lived nearby,” he growled thickly. “A group of older boys from the settlement thought to teach the passing Dalish elves a lesson.” His lips curled, showing his sharp yellowed teeth. “They caught a pair of young elves straying too close to the humans’ huts.”

Athadra’s stomach tensed, and the wound in her hand stung from her gripped fist. “And what lesson did they teach their captives?”

Swiftrunner rumbled a growled sigh. “The boy they beat and stabbed. The girl...they...raped, in turns, and left for dead.” Despite his professed hatred for Zathrian, the werewolf’s voice shook with the retelling. He lifted his head in a mournful howl, which the remaining werewolves took up, behind him.

The Lady placed a bark-covered hand upon the beast’s shoulder, and he fell into a kneel beside her. “The elves were brother and sister,” she supplied. “Zathrian’s children. His daughter survived the assault, but when she learned that she’d gotten a human child in her belly, the shame overwhelmed her and she took her own life.”

Athadra’s brow drew down, and it was only Alistair’s hand on her shoulder that kept her from stepping forward. “And so he summoned you to return a lesson in kind.”

The spirit drew her head from one side to the other and back again. "This is an old forest, mortal, and I am its spirit, its heart.” She spread her twig-like fingers to the trees growing around them. “I was not summoned from across the Veil, but pulled from the rocks, the trees and the very soil. I was then bound into the body of the wolf who became Witherfang; not possessing a host like a sylvan or one of the undead, but bound into a single being. Such a process could not have been accomplished without Zathrian's blood...a great deal of his blood. The curse and his life...are intertwined.”

Athadra’s gaze swept over the furred maws and faces of the wolves present. “That’s how he’s lived for so long,” she said, slightly awe-stuck. “But are your pups also so long-lived? Be they the same humans that caused his woe?”

Swiftrunner rose to his feet. “No,” he protested. “Some of us were born as we are, but I and many of my kin were turned by those who had not yet found the Lady. Just like Zathrian’s people are turning even now.”

“You see,” the Lady breathed, “the humans’ crimes were grave, but they suffered and died for them. The curse has ruined the lives of countless humans and elves since, to no purpose but Zathrian’s undying vengeance.”

The werewolf beside her huffed. “Every year his clan passes through this forest, and every year we have tried to make contact. This year he lingered, and when our envoys were turned away, we brought the curse to his hunters.” The beast shook his head. “Not to kill them, but to force Zathrian’s hand, to lift the curse for all.”

“For peace,” Athadra finished, and both Swiftrunner and the spirit nodded. “Too bad the Keeper don’t see it that way,” she sighed, shaking her head. She held up her uninjured hand before they could misunderstand. “You want me to talk to him, aye? Try and get this settled?”

The Lady inclined her head. “That would be most welcome,” she admitted.

The Warden sighed. “He’ll be here. But I won’t lead him into a trap. If you show me bad faith, I will kill the lot of you.”

Swiftrunner barked. “And if the elf should attack?” Athadra could see that he thought the negotiation was folly, but his devotion to the Lady kept him from resuming hostilities.

“Then I will put him down,” she swore. “As long as you agree to come to my aid against the Blight.” She looked again at the dozen or so werewolves in the chamber. Along with the few they’d spared in the attack on the temple, perhaps twenty still lived; not much, but better than no ally at all.

“We have seen the sickness the darkspawn spread,” the Lady of the Forest replied. “Some of our number have become rabid with it. If Zathrian cannot be reasoned with, I will give my consent, if Swiftrunner and the others agree.”

The werewolf sneered. “I do not trust this one, my Lady. But...if the Dalish do not succumb, and she fights with us, I will do what you think best.” He bowed low to the spirit, and the rest of his pack knelt to show their obedience.

The Lady gave her fellow creatures a somber smile. “It is settled, then. You will find the route to the surface much more expedient if you climb the stairs to our left.”

Athadra sealed the agreement with a nod. “I’ll be back as quick as I can,” she promised, and turned to lead her party up the long stone steps. They led to an ancient set of double doors which the Warden had noticed in the entrance chamber of the temple; the doors were barred with two thick planks, but Athadra and the Sten made short work of the impediments, and a moment later they stood bathed in sunlight from the holes in the subterranean ruin’s ceiling.

Somehow Athadra was not surprised to see Zathrian standing in the centre of one of the leaf-filtered sunbeams. “You have returned from the heart of the temple,” he observed, “absent the heart of the wolf.”

Oghren snorted. “Coulda told us it was here, baldy,” he grunted.

The Keeper sighed. “I knew that the werewolves would lead you to Witherfang, and that Witherfang would lead you here. There was no need to burden you with a history lesson.”

“Such as...where the curse came from in the first place?” Athadra’s fingers grazed idly over the unhealed scratch in her palm.

Zathrian’s eyes closed tightly and he took a long breath. “She told you,” he said.

Athadra nodded. “Aye, she did. And I...understand,” she admitted. “Believe me.”

“What do you know of the pain of losing a son? A daughter?” His eyes were definitely wet when they settled on Athadra.

“I know what your daughter went through,” Athadra said, flatly. “And I got me revenge, same as you did.”

The Keeper blinked and shook off his tears. “Then you should know that the pain never truly subsides, Commander. There can be no forgiveness. Now see the ends we agreed, before you too fall to the curse.”

“That may happen,” Athadra conceded. “But you’ve got no guarantee that Witherfang’s blood will undo the curse, either,” she pointed out. “I doubt it will, if you’re still alive. You owe it to the spirit you created to talk, at least. She has partly stilled the wildness in the werewolves.”

Zathrian’s brow arched. “These beasts attacked my clan, ever the savages they’ve always been. They deserve utter destruction, not your defence. Yet if you insist, I will accompany you, though I see no profit in it. Have I your word that you’ll defend me, should the monsters betray us?”

Athadra nodded. “But if you strike first, your life will end...even if it means I’ll become a disciple of the Lady of the Forest, meself.” Zathrian gave a sober nod, and Athadra turned to retrace her steps down the crumbling stone stairway. The Keeper followed in the midst of her company, his gnarled staff held at the ready.

“Do you believe it now, Swiftrunner?” The Lady’s soothing tones flitted up from the stones and branches around them. “Not all elves are unworthy of trust.”

The werewolf growled low in his chest, the fur of his shoulders standing on end. “The Keeper is here,” he huffed. “We should kill him now!” His rumble was matched by that of his fellows.

“You see, Commander?!” Zathrian drew up to his full height and clutched his staff defensively. “The beasts have not been tamed!”

The Lady steadied her werewolf companion. “I fear that your own thirst for vengeance will do little more than see what remain of our pack slain, Swiftrunner. Is this your desire?”

Swiftrunner’s growl died in his throat. “No, my Lady. Anything but that.” Once again, he fell to a submissive posture, and Athadra’s hand lowered from its reach to grab Starfang.

The Lady stepped forward. “Welcome back to my home, Zathrian. It has been a long time.”

The Keeper remained poised, but he did not strike out. “I see you have trained your pets after all, spirit,” he conceded. “I am here to talk, as you wished. What do you have to say?”

“We seek to end the curse,” the Lady replied. “The crimes your family have suffered were terrible, but the culprits have lain dead for centuries, now. Your fury has only served to sew more suffering in this world, which surely pains you, as it does me.”

Athadra looked to Zathrian, and she could sense the precipice on which he stood. “I am an old man,” he began. “Too long consumed by remorse and regret to feel pity.”

The Warden spoke up. “Even for your own hunters? Your kith?”

“This hatred within me is like an ancient, knotted root,” Zathrian answered. “I fear it has left little room, even for them.” He looked toward the Lady of the Forest, shaking his head slowly. “I am sorry, spirit. Perhaps I should never have given shape to you...but your charges must suffer, as I have suffered. It cannot be otherwise.”

Swiftrunner regained his feet, snarling accusations of treachery, but Athadra could not hear him. She felt her blood tingle as Zathrian’s palm found a sharp point of his stave, and she made her decision. “Watch out!” She flung an arm toward Zevran, knocking the Antivan back as the Keeper sent a pulse of binding energy toward the werewolves. Many of them stood paralyzed, and around the Warden, the trees came alive to aid Zathrian. Quickly Athadra stumbled backward and drew her blade, facing off against the elder elf. “Free the wolves!”

Alistair reacted swiftly, retreating into the midst of the werewolves who stood frozen behind Swiftrunner. The pack’s leader was busy grappling with a tree which the Lady had termed a sylvan, and so the taller Warden’s throat remained intact as he attempted to put his renewed templar training to use. A pulse of purple energy emanated from him, but when it dissipated, the wolves still stood bound. “He must have used blood magic!” Alistair called. Like the templars supposedly fuelled by lyrium, he could not block the forbidden art.

Athadra cursed under her breath, but she could not reply, too busy slicing at living roots and branches which moved to strike her. The air around her glimmered, and to the others she would have appeared semi-transparent, straddling the Veil; in their journey through the temple, the Wardens had discovered an ancient elven spirit, trapped within a vial of blood. It offered to teach Athadra an ancient skill in exchange for its freedom, and through the transaction, the Warden learned that her grandfather’s lessons in concealing her magic by channeling it into her muscles were a pale shadow of a much grander tradition. With the spirit’s help, Athadra had capitalized upon her own training, unlocking the full potential of the Arcane Warriors that hadn’t been seen since shortly after the fall of Arlathan.

Even with her new skills, the Warden was only holding her own against the animated tree. Zathrian dueled Shale, the Sten, and Oghren simultaneously, and seemed at least their equal. Behind Athadra, the Lady of the Forest had assumed the shape of Witherfang, a white wolf as large as Garahel. The two canines battled a pair of Shades which the Keeper had summoned as well. The Warden’s new abilities burned through her mana rapidly, however...soon the living bark would get the better of her, if nothing changed. With a growl of frustration, Athadra deepened the gash in her palm and used her own blood to power a jet of fire which incinerated the sylvan. It toppled into other trees just now coming to life, sewing confusion amongst them.

Free to join the fray with Zathrian, the Warden focused her energy on his own life force. He was far too skilled to let her boil his blood as she’d done to so many darkspawn of late, but she still managed to drain away enough of his power that he stumbled beneath a blow from the golem, and the Sten’s sword halted a scant millimetre from his throat.

The chaos in the chamber subsided as suddenly as it had begun; all of Zathrian’s focus had gone into stopping Asala from severing his head. With the werewolves freed and the trees stilled, the Shades were quickly dispatched. “I cannot...cannot defeat you,” Zathrian admitted, falling back to one knee. “Please...have mercy.”

Before Swiftrunner or one of his lieutenants could intercede, the Lady of the Forest returned, and she slowly approached the kneeling elf. “That is all we have wished from you, Zathrian.” She bowed her head. “You are my maker,” she told him. “You gave me form and consciousness where none had existed previously. I’ve known pain and love, hope and fear...all the joy and misery that is life. And yet of all things, I long most for an end. I beg you, maker, put an end to me. We beg you...show mercy.”

Tears tracked down the Keeper’s face, and Athadra might have sworn she saw lines etching themselves there, where none had existed before. “You shame me, spirit. I am naught but an old man, alive too long past his time.” Slowly he rose and glanced at Athadra. “Give Lanaya my staff, if you would,” he asked of her. When she nodded, he limped toward the wolves. “Yes...I think it is time. Let us...see an end to all this. I hope that my children find me worthy, in the Beyond.” The Lady moved with him, and the werewolves collapsed around them, clasping their paws as though in prayer.

Zathrian stopped in the centre of the wolves, and he cut deep into his forearm with the jagged point in the grip of his staff. Athadra sensed a glimmer of the awesome power he still wielded, but it was fading quickly; before her eyes, the Lady of the Forest began to glow and spread, until her light filled every corner of the chamber. When the sunburst faded, Zathrian stood alone, and the kneeling figures around him bore the naked forms of men and women. The Warden’s hand stung, and then she felt a soothing breeze caress her palm. She looked down, only to see her skin whole, as though it had never met a werewolf’s claw nor her own blade afterward.

A heartbeat later, the Keeper fell to the ground. When he landed, his body was truly ancient; leather skin stretched taut over bones, with hollow eyesockets staring blankly at the ceiling. The humans gasped and backed away from the mummified corpse, but Athadra strode toward it. Almost reverently, she pried the Keeper’s staff from his fingerbones, and then turned toward the huddled humans. “The curse is lifted,” she pronounced. “The elves of Zathrian’s clan will remember those who were lost, however. If this temple is safe, you should remain here for two or three days, until I’ve taken the clan far away.”

The man who had been Swiftrunner stood, evidently unashamed of his nakedness. “Thank you, stranger. I am sorry I did not trust you, before. I will try to keep my people safe.”

Athadra nodded, and without further reply she led her companions out into the Brecilian Forest once again, to make good on her bargain with the new Keeper of the Dar’Zathra.


	50. Sidetracked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Zathrian's curse laid to rest, the Grey Wardens can finally make good on their last unfulfilled treaty, and secure the allegiance of at least one clan of Dalish elves against the Blight. Before returning to Redcliffe, however, Athadra must attend to a request of one of her trusty companions--and though the goal is far less menacing, the elf simply cannot resist getting into a spot of danger.

The already-dim light was fading quickly as the Wardens and their fellow warriors reached the outskirts of the Dalish encampment. Oghren sidled up beside Athadra before they crossed into the relatively open ground and made a throaty noise which might have been a cough or a burp--with the ale-sodden dwarf, it was impossible to tell. “Boss,” he said, as if for emphasis. “Can we talk? Private-like?”

“Yes?” The Warden arched a brow and drew up to a halt, waving the rest of the party on.

“I, er...was wonderin’ about...somethin’,” the dwarf informed her somewhat gravely, once the others were out of earshot. When Athadra’s brows lowered again, he pressed on. “Way I see it, we’re done tearin’ around the country after the treaties, right? So the show’s about to kick off?”

“You might say that,” Athadra replied. “Why? Nerves kicking on?”

Oghren grunted. “What? No!” He shook his head so quickly that his long mustachios slapped his cheeks. “Flamin’ nugs in an ale barrel, no. I’m ready to kick that Archdemon all the way back to Bownammar, if we have to.”

“Then what’s the problem?” The Warden cracked a smile, more than a little grateful that the dwarf was so devoted, if she were honest with herself.

“It’s just that I...got some business I want to wrap up, ‘fore we go out in a bucket of blood and glory, is all.”

Athadra’s brow crept back up. “By the Void,” she sighed. “A woman.”

The dwarf rubbed his neck; if he weren’t already so ruddy, the Warden might’ve accused him of blushing. “What with the roving bands of darkspawn and that wretched High Dragon and all, this may be my last chance.”

“Why didn’t you bring this up before? We’ve had months,” Athadra pointed out.

“I know, Commander,” Oghren replied, his eye twitching. “I was about to, right when that no-account swamp monster walked out on you. The Antivan, he...made me think better of it, just then.” Suddenly, Athadra felt a whole new appreciation for Zevran; that was the second time he’d helped her with a wise word to the others, after all. “That, and where I want to go.”

Athadra planted Zathrian’s staff into the soft ground and crossed her arms. “I’m not going to like that, am I?”

“Her name’s Felsi,” the dwarf informed her. “She and I got to know one another after Branka...well, you know. Felsi’s family got into some trouble, and she had to come up topside some time last year. Thought she could get work in the Circle as a runecrafter, but they got them branded mages doin’ it all, instead.”

“Tranquil,” Athadra sneered.

Oghren nodded. “Them, aye. Last I heard, she was tendin’ tables at a waterhole in that town they got right next to the Circle Tower. I know you were worried about headin’ to the Circle, but after what went on in there, them templars ought to be mighty grateful.”

“Grateful enough to overlook me dancing into Kinloch Hold for you to sample ale,” the Warden said.

“That’s what I figure,” Oghren replied with a nod. “I’ll understand if it’s too late, or too out of the way, or...you just don’t wanna do it. I’m with you, either way, boss.”

Athadra took a breath, touched again by the man’s loyalty. She closed her eyes, drawing the map of Ferelden in her mind once more, and when she opened them again she gave him a nod. “If Alistair will take the clan to Redcliffe without me, you and I and a couple of others can cut through the bannorn to the village, then take the Highway down the lakeshore.”

“Really?” Oghren barked an incredulous laugh and shook his head. “You’re alright, you know that, boss?”

“Just don’t let it get around,” she warned, taking up Zathrian’s staff once more. The dwarf clapped a fist to his chest in salute and followed her out of the darkness of the trees and into the sprawling Dalish encampment. Already most of the sick-cots had been abandoned; evidently the curse’s lifting had restored the surviving warriors to full health.

Lanaya broke off a conversation with the clan’s hahren, an old man charged with keeping the lore and the law. He bowed and backed away, and the new Keeper gestured toward the Warden. “ _Andaran atish’an_ , Commander,” the Dalish elf greeted the Warden.

“ _Aneth ara_ ,” Athadra replied, briefly recalling similar exchanges between her and Morrigan, though Lanaya evidently mistook the grim flash of the Warden’s expression for a reflection of more recent events.

“Keeper Zathrian has left us,” she sighed. “I...felt it, when he passed into the Beyond.” She shook her head. “I am the twelfth First to serve beneath him. It...will take time to get used to being the Keeper, if the clan will even accept me.”

Athadra nodded. “Zathrian sacrificed himself to save his people from the curse,” she said. “It were his last wish that you wield his staff,” she informed the other elf, holding the magical instrument aloft. “He would not have chosen you if he didn’t think you worthy of it.”

Lanaya swallowed and took the bloodied staff from the Warden’s hands. “ _Ma seranna_ s,” she breathed, her eyes widening.

The Warden bit back the Elvish reply she’d learned from Morrigan, instead sweeping her gaze over the bustling camp. “The curse is gone, but there are still dangers lurking in the forest. How soon can your aravel and halla be made ready?”

“We must see our dead to the Beyond,” Lanaya insisted. “That will take us well into the night. By the sun’s height tomorrow, though, the clan can move. We are Dalish, after all.”

Athadra nodded. “Alistair will take you to Redcliffe, where the armies of our other allies are set to gather.”

The Keeper’s eyes widened. “You aren’t coming with us?”

“Got business elsewhere,” Athadra said. “It shouldn’t take more than a week,” she promised. “Two at the outside. Then I’ll come back to Redcliffe,” she promised. “The human lord will welcome you, since you stand with us against the darkspawn.”

“Zathrian was born before the last Blight,” Lanaya observed. “The stories he told of it have kept the memory alive in our clan.” She nodded. “It will be strange to enjoy a shemlen’s hospitality, or at least tolerance. If he doesn’t mind us hunting on his lands, we will be there.” The Keeper tilted her head, keeping her gaze upon the Warden. “ _Dareth shiral_.”

Athadra returned the shallow bow, and sought out Alistair. He was trying to give a young elf advice on how to woo a lady, which Athadra could hardly believe; she suggested that Leliana take over, and she brought the taller Warden off to one side. “You like the elves,” she noted, with a modicum of approval.

“They’re really fascinating, with their own history and lore. I shouldn’t admit it, but having a worldview at right angles to the one I’ve had from the Chant of Light is terribly interesting,” Alistair said. “Not that I’m about to go shirking Andraste or the Maker or anything,” he amended a bit hastily.

The Warden barked a laugh. “I’ll see you to the Void yet,” she swore. “But...you might try and see me to it, first,” she predicted. “I want you to guide the clan to Redcliffe.”

“Don’t they know the way?”

Athadra shrugged. “Lanaya may, since I suspect she weren’t born in the clan, but they really try to avoid human settlements of any size. This clan’s route takes them through the Wilds from here, so they may not know anything of the bannorn at all.”

“See, I _am_ useful,” Alistair boasted. “Wait--you mean you want me to guide them...without you?” He raised a brow. “Don’t you remember what happened the last time you headed off without me?”

“Aye,” Athadra conceded. “I were nearly bitten in half by a High Dragon.” The memory still brought a tingle to her ribs. “But this ain’t anything like that, Alistair. I promise.”

The taller Warden sighed. “What’s this about, then?”

Athadra nodded over to Oghren, who’d convinced the adolescent elf with girl troubles of his own to take a swig of the dwarf’s homebrew, and now stood slapping his knees with laughter over the lad’s passed-out form. “The dwarf’s got an itching he needs to scratch in Kinloch Hold. Given how many darkspawn he’s split in half, I’d say I owe him that.”

Alistair shook his head at the spectacle, chuckling under his breath. “I suppose we do, at that.”

“And it’ll be much quicker if it’s just me and him--plus Leliana and Zevran, to help us track through the woods and keep ourselves fed. Eamon says he’s trying to broker a ceasefire for the Landsmeet, and even if we run into a bit of trouble, we’ll be in friendly country.” The Warden shrugged. “I can rephrase it so it’s not a request, if that’ll make you feel better,” she offered.

The man hesitated, but after a moment he acceded. “Alright,” he said. “You just make sure you don’t do anything stupid, Athadra. Try and be back before Wintersend.” He spoke not of the month, but of the annum which occurred on its last day and shared its name. It was the day Eamon had said he wanted to send out the call for the Landsmeet, if at all possible.

“I will,” she affirmed. “But then we should go, soon. Do you want to say goodbye to Leliana?”

“I’d like that,” Alistair said.

Athadra left him with a nod; she sought out the Sten and told him they’d have to suspend their sparring sessions until she rejoined him at Redcliffe, and he warned her not to let her skills dull. She thought she could see a glimmer pride in his eyes, but she didn’t linger--instead the Warden collected Zevran, Leliana, and the dwarf of the hour. Neither of the rogues objected to the detour, and so together with her mabari, they set out Northwest, cutting across the Imperial Highway and forging miles into the bannorn before stopping for the night.

Midway through the next day, as Leliana led the way over a plank bridge which forded a rushing spring stream, an arrow buzzed by the point of Athadra’s left ear.  “Down!” She called, pulling Zevran back behind a nearby tree. Garahel rushed forward, past Leliana, to take on a wolf-mabari crossbreed. The Orlesian was quick to return fire before seeking cover herself.

“Guess trouble found us, after all,” Oghren called from a few trees over.

Athadra cackled. “I were hoping it would,” she called back, snatching up one of her daggers and slicing deeply into her palm. As her blood flowed freely, the Warden peeked around her tree, spotting the triplet of archers on a rise across the stream. A volley of arrows drove her back to her hiding place, but her blood sung, aching to be let loose. Athadra heard the archers’ heartbeats over the din of barking and gushing water; she felt the force of their lifeblood coursing through their veins. With a growl, the Warden pulled at that tantalizing energy. She pulled until her assailants’ blood boiled beneath their skin, into their lungs and out of their eyes, and the offending arrows ceased.

“Go!” She yelled, leaping from the cover of the tree to follow Garahel. He’d triumphed against the opposing canine, and now he harried a pack of ill-armoured rogues. The Warden took the fiends for bandits, and might have felt pity for them, but a man in a helmet screamed for them to take the red-head. Athadra realized then that they were haphazard assassins. With her allies by her side, and her own blood hanging in an aura about her, Athadra cut the men down without thought for mercy.

Leliana put a stilling hand on the elf’s upper arm, to keep her from taking the helmeted man’s life. “I would hear who sent him for me,” she said with a hitch in her voice, as though she already knew the answer.

Athadra hesitated, casting her eyes over the Orlesian for a long moment, before easing backward and resheathing her daggers. The fools hadn’t been worthy of having Starfang drawn against them, and certainly not of drawing the Fade itself into her flesh. “Speak, then,” she grunted at the sole survivor. “Before I change my mind.”

The man lifted himself up onto his elbows and looked from the dark-skinned elf to the pale human and back again. “I didn’t get her name,” he said quickly. “But she was tall, with dark hair like ser mage,” he went on, nodding at Athadra. “Sounded Orlesian.”

“Did this woman tell you why she wanted me dead?” Leliana frowned thoughtfully.

Her attacker shook his head. “Lady, I ain’t paid to ask questions. I was given a handful of silver and your description, with the promise of gold if I came back with your head.”

Zevran clucked his tongue. “This is the best your country has to offer?” He addressed Athadra. “No wonder Howe had to look elsewhere for my like.”

The Warden stepped forward, forcing the would-be assassin back down to the ground with her boot. “And just where were you to drop my friend’s head and pick up this gold?” She could sense his blood, trickling from the wounds he’d already suffered, and it was all she could do to resist draining the last of his life away.

“I was given directions to an ‘ouse, in Denerim. I can tell you...if you promise to let me go,” he pleaded. “I walk away, and you never see me again. I swear.”

Athadra glanced back at Leliana, and she nodded. “I will accept that,” Leliana assured him.

The man managed a smile. “It’s just inside the South gate of the market square,” he informed them. “Right-hand side comin’ in from the gate, past the Chantry. If you go into the alleyway, you’ve gone too far.”

“I know it,” the bard confirmed, sounding a bit sick. “Now get out of my sight. I never want to see you again.”

“Only one way of guaranteeing that,” Athadra said, her lips curling into a smile.

The ill-fated assassin tried to sit up, but found the Warden’s weight too much. “But she said...”

“She said she’d let you go,” Athadra finished for him. “Problem is, Leliana ain’t in command. I am.” Before the poor sod could raise a further protest, the Warden lifted her injured hand, drawing a cloud of blood from him. His heart stilled, and the crimson haze contracted as it swirled around her, until it revolved in a tight sphere atop her palm. Athadra closed her fingers around the ball of blood, bringing its energy into herself, and when they opened again, not even a hint of a scar remained. “So that’s what that feels like...”

She knew that she ought to feel ashamed, or at least fearful of anyone seeing and reporting back to the nearest Chantry that the Grey Wardens were led by a power-mad blood mage. Other than very occasionally siphoning off a bit of Garahel’s life-force when Alistair and Leliana were both miles away from her, the Warden hadn’t dared to do more than boil darkspawn and werewolf blood where it sat; despite her own lack of faith in the Maker or Andraste, she’d been taught her whole life that this singular act was one of the most vile a mage could commit upon another person, second only to using someone’s own blood to control others’ thoughts. The maleficarum in the Circle Tower had proved the horrors of that aspect of the forbidden art, but Cullen and her own party had shown that breaking into an unwilling mind wasn’t a trifle matter, either.

Yet Athadra found she no longer cared if her Andrastean companions disapproved. She stood triumphant over her fallen foe, part of his lifeblood mingling with her own tainted essence, and she did not fall into madness or possession. Instead she felt exultant, understanding for the first time the true appeal of the darkest magic proscribed by the Chantry and the Circle. The Warden could see how such a power might raise an empire...and drive it to ruin, if used to excess. She would have to take care not to lose herself in the temptation.

“...will not stop until I am dead.” Leliana’s voice came into focus, and Athadra blinked. The Orlesian had either not noticed or was conveniently ignoring the assassin’s method of execution.

“Sorry?” The Warden’s attention sharpened.

“We should talk later, after we make camp,” Leliana replied. “Away from here.”

Athadra nodded. “Let’s get moving, then. If the country doesn’t get any rougher, we should make Kinloch Hold by tomorrow evening.” They set off, leaving the corpses for the carrion crows.


	51. Wicked Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athadra seeks distraction in Zevran's company after Oghren's little detour, but a simple card game turns into more than the Warden might have expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes explicit sexuality, mild sexual violence, and passing references to non-consensual sex and castration.

The Antivan flipped the card in his two fingers so that Athadra could see the red and black wings of the Angel of Death, his long middle finger obscuring the skeletal face and most of the scythe. “It is time to show our hands again, _mi_ _amiga_.”

The Warden sighed and threw her cards down onto the bedroll, beside the discard pile. She had a serpent, three daggers, and a knight. Not a bad hand, really, but she knew Zev’s would be better. She didn’t know when she’d started thinking of him that way, as _Zev_ rather than _Zevran_ , but he hadn’t commented on it when she’d referred to him as such earlier in the day. She was right, too--he had two daggers, two knights, and an angel. “I really need to learn how to cheat,” she rued.

“I think it is this cold,” the assassin lamented. “It makes your fingers too sluggish.”

“Could be,” Athadra conceded. “I bet you’d have preferred we stayed at the Inn.”

Zevran heaved a sigh and started reshuffling the deck. “A nice warm room and a table would have been preferable to a chilly tent and a bedroll...at least for playing cards,” he admitted with a wink, evidently unable to resist the innuendo. “But I comprehend your reasons for moving on so swiftly. The... _tintops_ , as you say.”

Athadra nodded. “Thanks. For...for everything.” She felt a lump welling up in her throat, and she looked down at the plain, yellowed backs of the cards; the moonlight filtering through her open canvas door was enough for both of their elven eyes to see by.

“The dwarf may drink too heavily and fart worse than an Antivan leather mill, but his heart is pure.” Zevran had stood with the dwarf when he’d reintroduced himself to Felsi, and a few whispered lines from the assassin had made the difference between a parting kiss and a slap in the bearded face. Oghren had left the bar happily, with a promise to return if and when he’d survived the Blight. “It is good to see him drink for joy, rather than sorrow.”

“Aye,” Athadra concurred. She lay a hand overtop his, just as he moved to place the deck and begin the game. She felt him freeze beneath her touch, and a shimmer of guilt tickled up her spine. “But I want to thank you for more than that. You’ve...been a good friend, even when I didn’t deserve it.” She remembered the sight of his back, already scarred from a life hardened by the Antivan Crows, as wet with blood as her own had been after the Sten’s reluctant lashing. The memory made her blood whisper, but she still felt ashamed that she’d used the other elf to dull her own pain. “I’m...sorry,” she managed.

Zevran’s hand shifted beneath hers, moving until their palms touched and their fingers laced together. “You should not be, _mi_ _querida_. I have suffered--and enjoyed--far harsher punishment, in my time.” The Warden pulled in a thick breath, but she didn’t yank her hand away, even as he drew it up to brush a light kiss over her fingernails. She’d shorn her gloves, but intended to sleep in her plate as long as they camped in the open air, as Duncan had once advised her...though the armour suddenly felt insufferably hot, despite the chill of the late Wintersend night. The assassin slowly unlaced his fingers from hers and sat back, his leather armour creaking subtly, and he held her crimson gaze with his amber-coloured eyes. “Do you wish another game?”

Athadra hesitated, diverting her eyes to stare at the old Antivan cards. Zevran’s hand returned to them, and she noticed that he still wore the Dalish gloves she’d picked up from Varathorn shortly before departing the clan’s encampment; when she’d presented them to him later that night, he’d seemed nearly hostile at first, but eventually he told her a story about his mother, who’d died giving birth to him. A pair of her own gloves comprised her legacy, which he’d lost to the Crows after returning from an ill-planned excursion to find his Dalish roots. She’d felt oddly grateful when he’d accepted the gift, at last. The leather of the new pair was as soft as a baby halla’s fur, and promised to remain so, no matter how often the gloves handled dagger and bow. The Warden’s heart hammered behind her ribs when she realized that what she most wanted was to feel that soft leather against her own skin, but her tongue fastened itself to the roof of her mouth.

“Perhaps I should go, then,” Zevran suggested. “If you prefer.” He glanced over his shoulder, to the night outside the tent. “If we wish to start early tomorrow...”

“No,” Athadra breathed. Warmth had already taken hold of her belly, but memories far less pleasant than Zevran’s weeping flesh threatened to send ice down her spine. She hissed at herself for her own weakness; she’d seen the templar’s manhood and his throat torn away, and he could never hurt anyone again...unless she let him keep hurting her. She laughed bitterly. “I can stab a bloody dragon through the eye and live to tell about it, but a dead man would still haunt my dreams if it weren’t for the sodding curse in me blood.”

Zevran leaned forward and, somewhat tentatively, brushed his fingertips across her scarred cheek. “I have witnessed your courage, _querida_ ,” he assured her. The Warden managed to smile beneath his touch. “Yet you do not have to meet every challenge that faces you. Give me the word, and I will go,” he said.

Athadra closed her eyes, and Morrigan’s departure flashed over her eyelids. “Someone whom I care for quite deeply excused herself from my sight with a similar question. Every day since, I wish I could have given a different reply.” The Warden's eyes found Zevran's face again. “I cannot give you my heart, Zevran.” She offered him a half-smirk, instead. “And I will not accept yours.”

The Antivan nodded, just the once, and he moved closer her in the dim light. “I make no demands, Athadra,” he breathed. When the Warden did not chastise him for calling her by name, he returned her smirk. “What would you have of me?”

“There is something I require,” the Warden whispered, so lowly that she leaned forward to make certain the other elf had heard her. Her heart hammered behind her breastplate. “Before tonight, Alistair is the only living man who’s touched me since Duncan helped me up off the dock in Redcliffe, back in Bloomingtide.”

“What of the giant?” Zevran countered, his breath tickling Athadra’s nose and cheeks. “I saw him embrace you, when you took your lashes.”

Athadra barked a laugh. “That don’t count,” she pleaded. “He’s...different. It likely scared him half to death when I leaned on him.” She shook her head and leaned back, contemplating the dark roof of her tent for a long moment. “I’m afraid, Zev,” she admitted. Her belly twisted with that fear, and her spine tingled with the shame it brought her.

“You have nothing to fear from me, _querida_ ,” the Antivan assured her. “Of course, seeing as how I tried to kill you, I will understand if you never quite believe that,” he added, his cheeks near to dimpling with his grin.

The Warden cocked a brow, her crimson eyes falling anew upon that tattooed face. “I mean that I’m scared of... _that_...happening again,” she explained. “That any time a man touches me, I’ll want to stab him to death. It’s a weakness my enemies could take advantage of,” she pronounced. “I would move past it, if I can.”

Zevran nodded once more, understanding that a Warden Commander could have more enemies than just the darkspawn to contend with. In reply, he moved to unbuckle the shoulder straps which helped to secure his leather armour. “It would be an honour, Commander,” he said at last, without a hint of flirtation in his tone.

Athadra sucked in a breath and opened her mouth, but the words died on her lips; instead, she mimicked his motion, loosening her heavy plate until it fell into two halves around her. A minute later, her grieves, boots, and chainmail made a pile with the chest pieces, beside Starfang and her dagger-belt, and the Warden sat in her bloodstained undertunic and smallclothes. The heat in her belly spread, starting to overbalance the chill of her fear...the span of time since Morrigan’s departure had taken its toll on the Warden’s unquenched desires, even as her heart still beat for the woman. Zevran knelt before her in his smallclothes, arms crossed at the wrist over his belly, the moonlight from the flap behind him bringing the cobnut-brown skin of his shoulders to a lustrous glow.

“Whenever you are ready,” the Antivan informed her. “If you are certain...”

In response, Athadra rose up to her knees. She threw off her undertunic in one smooth motion, and closed her eyes as the cool air caressed her bared skin; she felt it prickle into gooseflesh, except for the deep scars she wore on her flank and back, and her eyes moved from Zevran’s torso to her own. Eight months of battle had built up a layer of chorded muscle beneath her skin, transforming her once-lean frame almost unrecognisably. The elf knew that she wasn’t beautiful, at least not anymore, but her dark skin still burned when she swept a hand up her curved hip to cup her breast. A sharp intake of breath caught her attention, and Athadra’s gaze took in Zevran’s own eyes gliding across her form. There was naked desire in those eyes, even as they met hers, but also a deeper concern which shone through the man’s lust. That gave the Warden an anchor to hold onto, and helped her own desire overcome her apprehension.

Athadra lunged forward, toppling the assassin backward until he came to rest halfway out of her tent. Garahel’s snores were matched only by Oghren’s, while Leliana kept watch on the other side of the fireplace. The Warden ignored them, her attention focused on the feel of Zevran’s skin and his own muscles beneath. “I am certain,” she finally answered, before claiming his lips with the same recklessness, lest she lose her nerve. His lips were fuller than Morrigan’s, and his tongue was a bit rougher, but it drew more heat from the depths of her belly as it filled her mouth. Zevran’s hands caressed her back without prejudice, his fingers teasing over the whip’s kisses as easily as her pristine flesh, and Athadra groaned into his mouth, her tongue duelling to take possession of it.

She broke off the kiss when she felt him quicken against her hip, and a lick of terror threatened to overwhelm her. Steadying herself with a breath, Athadra gathered up Zevran’s arms, pinning his wrists to the cool grass above his head with one hand. As she arched atop him, a calm settled over her, and her free hand slid across his face and down his neck. Her breath evened, and her crimson eyes locked onto his gaze as her thumbnail caught on the flesh above his sternum. “Best not to scream,” she whispered, sparing a brief glance at the dwarf’s tent. For her part, the Orlesian seemed preoccupied with her duty, and paid the half-exposed elves little mind.

The Antivan held her gaze when it returned to him, and he only nodded, even as the Warden’s short thumbnail dug sharply into his flesh. She drank in the pain which tinged the edges of his features, and her heart skipped into her throat when she felt her nail break his skin. “Stay,” she breathed, patting his wrists for emphasis. Thus freed, her left hand meandered down his arm and flank, until her fingers brushed the top of his roughspun smallclothes. The bead of blood on Zevran’s chest sharpened her hunger, and she consciously recalled another man’s blood pooling between his thighs; the combination drove the last memories of her confinement from the corners of her mind. Salted copper swamped her tastebuds when her tongue slithered against the deep scratch her thumb had made. Just at that moment she shifted her hips and drove them down onto his. The elf beneath her hissed a groan, but she clapped a hand over his mouth before he could refill his lungs.

Zevran shuddered as Athadra’s calloused hand clamped down, and the Warden leaned forward, tracing her tongue up the side of his neck to the lobe of one of his long ears. “Don’t let go,” she hissed through her teeth, “until I do.” The assassin held her gaze evenly when she shifted atop him, letting her lips and nose rest on the back of her hand. She moved slowly, savouring the silken feel of his torso sliding beneath hers. Soon enough his arms and legs tensed, protesting at his lack of breath, but she held on tightly to him even as his hips bucked more fiercely. He was strong, but Athadra was stronger, and she kept her grip until she saw the light begin to fade from the corners of his eyes.

“Now,” she growled, yanking her hand away from his mouth; Zevran’s chest lifted violently as he sucked greedily at the air, and in that same moment Athadra felt him spasm within her, and she couldn’t resist smirking as she took another lazy lap at the scratch on his chest. The warmth of the Antivan’s release helped to chase away the last chilly tendrils of her fear, as his blood had helped to curb its ascent, and Athadra sighed gratefully as she extricated herself from his limbs and readjusted her smallclothes.

Zevran swallowed thickly and stared up at her. She saw a shadow flicker across his face, and followed his glance to a high branch, where a tawny owl sat and watched them both dolefully. The assassin shook his head and sat up. “Was that...enough, _querida_?”

“I...think so,” the Warden answered, and she gave him a small smile. “For now.” She hadn’t let herself fall over the edge into her own abyss, as she’d allowed with Morrigan...but she suspected that if she had, her hand would not have relinquished its hold upon his mouth. “You may go, now...as long as I see you in the morning.”  The other elf inclined his head, and Athadra heaved his armour out of her tent, closing the flap behind her.


	52. The Rubaiyat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another homecoming in Redcliffe sees the Warden and her companions well-fed, and now that the treaties have all been re-ratified in blood, there's nothing keeping Arl Eamon from declaring the Landsmeet. Alistair brings up a bit of family business he might have in Denerim after he learns of Leliana's own interests in the city. Meanwhile, Athadra has a frank discussion with Eamon about what does--and does not--motivate her struggle.

Redcliffe bustled with more activity than it had seen in years. Refugees and regular soldiers filled the empty houses of the village proper, and Teagan had seen even more men-at-arms raised from his own bannric. Even the tavern which Bella ran on Athadra’s behalf was full of the first wave of King Behlen’s expeditionaries--who’d brought real dwarven gold with them, along with Behlen’s gratitude for the throne, to boot. During Athadra’s visit to the tavern during Starfang’s forging, she made the arrangements to store the shipments of contraband lyrium in Lloyd’s secure cellar, since the iron doors and stone walls were proof against anything but treachery. The castle’s bailey rang with clashing steel or thudding arrows from sunup until well past dusk the day of Athadra’s arrival; she was surprised to see a few of Lanaya’s hunters instructing the shemlen on proper bow-work.

After another welcome-back-to-Redcliffe feast, the Warden’s smaller party halted at the top of the stairs to the castle’s second level, just by Alistair and Leliana’s quarters. Alistair shook his head when the bard told him of the failed ambush. “I knew I should have gone with you. The only thing we saw on the Highway was a band of genlocks. Not even an ogre to liven things up.”

“The brigands fell easy,” Athadra assured him. “And we’ll be seeing plenty more darkspawn after we get back from Denerim, next month.”

“True enough,” Alistair conceded. “Though I wouldn’t mind running into a teyrn or two before we quit the capital.”

“There’s always a chance Loghain could sway the bastards and try to hang us,” Athadra pointed out, her voice far more cheerful than it should have been.

The taller Warden grimaced. “Why do I get the feeling you’d like that?”

The elf shrugged. “I figure this damned country could do with a few new noble families, seeing as how almost half of the ones we’ve got turned against your brother.” She’d made no secret that Alistair would walk out of the Landsmeet as King of Ferelden, one way or another.

Alistair’s face grew a shade grimmer. “Don’t remind me. I dunno what’ll be worse--facing the jackals in Denerim or the Archdemon in the Hinterlands.”

“I am sure we’ll survive both, with the Maker’s help,” Leliana proclaimed. She had the decency to wince at Athadra’s eyeroll, however, and retreated back into her bedchamber without further comment.

“I was wondering...” Alistair drawled, just as Athadra turned to find her own room. She paused and gestured for Oghren and Zevran to continue on without her, nodding for the tall man to continue. “Well, you see...Arl Eamon told me that I may...kind of...have a sister. In Denerim. You know...where we’re headed.”

Athadra felt her stomach lurch, as memories of her parents and the Hawkes threatened to break through the mind-forged vault she’d put them in since Lothering’s destruction. “And you want to look her up?”

Alistair’s lips curled up hopefully. “Right. Well, she’s more like a half-sister, really.”

“From the same woman what caught King Maric’s eye, aye,” Athadra said.

“Exactly. And anyway, I know it’s...not _essential to the mission_ or anything, but I’d like it if we found her. You and me and Leliana.” He paused, glancing from the Warden to the bard and back again. “I’ve never really had any family before Duncan rescued me, and, well...” He drew in a long breath, and let it out in a long rush. “You two feel like family to me and I’d like it if we met my sister together.”

Athadra’s crimson eyes widened and she felt her throat go dry. When his brows knitted, she couldn’t repress the smile that crossed her lips. “I ain’t had any family since the tintops took me away,” she admitted, and clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll stand with you, if you want. We can see Marjolaine put down, while we’re at it,” she added with a nod in Leliana’s direction. The bard had told her something of her past with the Orlesian spymistress and assassin, whom Leliana professed to be the culprit behind their ambush.

Alistair grasped her forearm and nodded. “Eamon says he’ll send out riders tomorrow, and we’ll head out the day after. The Landsmeet will be officially begun on Wintersend.”

“Just like he wanted,” Athadra commented. “How long will the bloody thing take?”

When Alistair shrugged, Leliana stepped forward with a snicker. “If it’s anything like the _Etates-Generales_ , half of the nobles won’t show up for a week, and they’ll spend a good two or three arguing over the colour of the drapes hanging in the hall, before any real business can be done.”

“So...we’re going to spend all of Guardian in Denerim?” Alistair shook his head when Leliana nodded.

“Especially with something so important. Tevinter did not fall in a day, you know,” the bard pointed out.

“Figures,” Athadra breathed. “It looks like we’re facing the dragon in Drakonis.” The month of dragons, the last day of which happened to be the day she got her name. She didn’t tell them that, however, lest Leliana start gibbering on about it being a _sign from the Maker_ or something even less tolerable. With a small nod, Athadra parted from the two, and stalked down the corridor to her own room.

She paused at the door Zevran shared with Oghren, but when the red-bearded dwarf answered her knock, she didn’t see the elf anywhere. “Said somethin’ about a score to settle, boss,” he informed her. “Told me not to expect him back before the mornin’, too.” His green eyes appraised her suspiciously, but he didn’t say anything else, and Athadra merely nodded gratefully.

The Warden wasn’t surprised when she opened her own door and caught sight of him leaning against a wall, picking grime from his fingernails with the tip of his dagger. “I wonder if you’d care for another round?” He asked airily, not bothering to look up from his task for a long moment.

When at last he did so, Athadra felt her need rise once more, dampened only a little by the nerves which still lingered. “I’d like that,” she breathed. “On reflection, our last game didn’t last _nearly_ long enough...”

Late the next morning she woke alone, though her muscles still ached from exertion and her blood sang with the relief that the Antivan’s attentions had brought her. More than a little red tinged her sheets, both from her and Zevran, but she’d been able to heal their scratches without calling for Friga. The Warden was just considering stirring from the bed when a soft knock sounded at her door. With a few mumbled curses, Athadra roused herself and stalked to the chamber’s entrance. She smirked at the blush which tickled over the serving elf’s cheeks when the Warden threw open the wooden barrier and stood without a stitch of clothing. “What time is it?”

“N-Nearly noon, Champion,” the servant stammered. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but my good arl requests your presence. In his study.” The sound of Athadra’s stomach growling drew the servant’s gaze. “There will be food,” she said, and that was enough to convince the Warden.

Athadra dressed quickly in a fine shirt and trousers that had mysteriously replaced the well-worn clothes she’d acquired from Aethelbert, in this very village. She left her feet bare, but out of habit she strapped on her dagger-belt, though she was actually starting to feel comfortable in this place. The Warden stalked down the hall and descended the stairs, her sharp nose confirming the serving elf’s claim well before she pushed at the half-open door.

“Ah, Champion,” Arl Eamon sighed when she entered the small room. His desk was covered with three platters of eggs, sausages, and kippers. “When you missed breakfast this morning, I guessed that you might require a light snack before we get down to business.”

Athadra didn’t pause to acknowledge the man’s attempt at a joke, instead setting upon the food with her unaided fingers; she only slowed enough to speak properly midway through the second dish. “And what’s ‘business’, Arl Eamon?”

The man heaved a sigh. “Most of the preparations for the Landsmeet have been made, and our allies all await our call to arms. Yet I have received some...interesting correspondence, between Mother Hannah and the Grand Cleric, through Ser Greagoir.”

Athadra’s brow drew down, and she dropped the fish she was chewing. “How interesting?”

“As you know, the Chantry controls trade in lyrium...and as you may also know, the Redcliffe Chantry’s supply mysteriously disappeared during our great ordeal,” Eamon said.

“Which I kept from becoming a catastrophe,” the Warden pointed out.

The arl inclined his head. “Indeed, Champion. And, for the sake of argument, I would admit that I could understand your reticence to see that supply restored. Yet Mother Hannah is very interested in having it so, and re-instituting the corps of templars which the village once boasted.”

“Fuck the gods,” Athadra replied with a laugh.

Eamon stroked his beard, thoughtfully. “It is whispered that the Tevinter Chantry has come to acknowledge the Maker’s majesty reflected seven ways,” he mused. “Might I be in the presence of an adherent?” The Tevinters had once worshipped seven dragons they called the Old Gods, and Chantry lore asserted that it was these creatures who became the dreaded Archdemons. After the great schism, it eventually became a death sentence for anyone outside of Tevinter to profess the version of the Chant espoused by the so-called Black Divine in Minrathous.

The Warden’s eyes widened as she considered the man’s cautious choice of words. “No,” she said with a bit of a snarl. “I’ve never seen the Maker in any form.” She tilted her head. “The only god I’ve ever witnessed has wings and spits purple flame,” she told him. “And I intend to bring the bitch down.”

The arl heaved a weighted sigh and shook his head, managing to smirk through his beard. “I might have known,” he remarked. “You truly hold no faith?”

Athadra’s head moved slowly from side to side, and she took a bite of kipper. After swallowing, she suppressed a burp. _Nearly as bad as Oghren_ , she thought to herself. “I don’t need no Maker nor any other gods to tell me what to do. You can try and hang me for it, but until you do, I’ll be here to guard this village while it sleeps.”

The old man’s eyes shone, though Athadra couldn’t read his expression. “You have nothing to fear as long as I am Arl of Redcliffe, Champion.  As for the revered mother’s aims...” He shook his head. “The villagers know that you hold magic, and that yet another mage resides in the castle, since the incident with the orphan.”

“Where Friga healed a boy’s broken leg?” Athadra spat a laugh and finished off the last platter. “Bet the chantrywoman started blathering on about magic _serving man and never ruling over him_ ,” she sighed, misquoting one of the Canticles of the Chant of Light most often used to justify imprisoning mages in Circles. When Eamon nodded, the Warden shook her head. “That is serving people, by the Void. Neither me nor Friga are going to waltz into the Chantry and turn the faithful little cods into blood slaves.”

“Yet templars can protect mages from the mob, as well as conversely,” Eamon said, reasonably.

“We’ll have to part ways, there,” Athadra responded. “Any case,” she went on, “I’ll not have templars in my presence, and you’d be wise not to let them back into the village. You probably know by now that Behlen’s giving me lyrium.” Eamon nodded diplomatically, but did not comment. “Well, it should be enough for meself, Friga, and Connor...as well as the mages I’ll properly recruit, if I’m lucky enough to see my next name day. But the supply will not touch a tin-top’s lips, so long as I am Champion of Redcliffe...and I’m guessing the Chantry don’t have the coin to buy any from Denerim, even if the roads were open.”

The arl wiped a finger over the gleaming silver; the Warden had literally licked the trays clean, driven by the hunger her tainted blood had blessed her with. “I suspect you are right. Still, it will not always be so...and I have considered well what may happen to Connor, if it is realized that he is not truly a Grey Warden.”

“Not yet, at any rate,” Athadra pointed out. “He may yet choose to serve, when he comes of age.”

Eamon’s beard twitched with his grimace. “The law stands unaltered, and he cannot inherit after I’m gone. Still, given what I’ve seen of you and your companions, and what my brother the bann has reported of your conversation with him, it seems a better fate than what awaited him at the Circle Tower.”

The Warden shrugged. “The decision’ll be his. But I meant my promise...even if he doesn’t wish to join us, I’ll give him my protection.”

Arl Eamon nodded. “And again I thank you, Champion. There is another matter that Mother Hannah’s correspondence revealed, however, which more directly concerns our efforts.” He paused for a breath. “The Knight-Commander wishes templars to accompany the mages to the field of battle, as they did in Ostagar...and he’s trying to convince First Enchanter Irving to limit his dispensations.”

The news was nearly expected, but no more palatable for it. “That’s their decision,” she conceded. “But if you’re able, I’d suggest warning the Knight-Commander that I risked my life to save all of those mages in order to end the Blight. If he seeks to impede that goal, he’s serving the darkspawn...and that makes him, and his order, the enemy of the Grey Wardens.”

“And I have seen what fate tends to befall those so named, especially of late,” the arl commented. “I will press the case with my summoning missive, saying that if fewer than...” He hesitated.

“Twenty,” Athadra supplied. That way they’d get a decent number of Senior Enchanters as well as some other seasoned spell-casters.

“If fewer than twenty mages are released, the effort against the Blight might be unconscionably weakened.” He stroked his beard once more. “And what of their escorts?”

Athadra drew in a breath. “I’d rather they didn’t have any. It’ll be tricky to explain how _all_ of them were cut down by the darkspawn, and I don’t think dulling my blades on their armour will be a worthwhile distraction.”

Eamon shifted uncomfortably. “The Knight-Commander will likely insist, but I will see what I can do to limit his ambition. But please,” he breathed, a real note of exasperation entering his tone. “Please try not to get an Exalted March called on my humble little arling, Champion. I doubt even you could stand up against the Divine.”

Athadra’s tongue readied itself for a caustic reply, but she saw the wisdom in swallowing it, and so she merely nodded. “Do we set out amorn, then?”

“Indeed,” Eamon confirmed. “With a small complement of my men-at-arms and a few dwarves, as well as all of your companions. We do not wish to antagonise our hosts in the capitol, but we must be able to defend ourselves, if need be.” The man stood and regarded his bookshelf for a long moment. “Denerim is the birthplace of Andraste, as well as the heart and soul of Ferelden. As tenacious as a mabari, and as good to have on your side.”

Athadra stood as well, contemplating the light of a candle. “But Loghain’s been in control of it for almost a year,” she pointed out.

“That may not be to his advantage,” the arl replied. “If my sources are correct, he has appointed Rendon Howe as the Arl of Denerim, as well as Teyrn of Highever. One man holding so much power cannot govern competently...the streets will have grown even more lawless than usual, I expect.” He turned to look at her more fully. “We should arrive the day before Wintersend, and I predict the first session of the Landsmeet to sit not more than ten days thence. In the intervening time, it may be a good idea to get the citizens on our side, in order to shorten the number of votes required to settle our great matter.”

The Warden tilted her head. “So I should...what? Run around rescuing kittens out of trees?” She breathed a laugh, though it turned bitter when she realised that Morrigan would not be on-hand to complain about her doing more good deeds for people the Wilds-witch deemed undeserving. The arl dismissed her with a short bow, and she returned a ghost of one, herself, before stalking from the study.


	53. Amenhotep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wardens and their companions arrive in Denerim at long last, and Athadra's first order of business is to settle Leliana and Alistair's personal affairs. Both the would-be king and the former bard have to examine themselves in light of their revelations, but Athadra keeps them focused on their task, and on the future which waits beyond its completion.

The look on Alistair’s face nearly broke the Warden’s heart. In truth, she felt like going back into the shabby little shack and murdering that awful woman who called herself Goldanna, and whom Alistair claimed as a half-sister. She’d been aptly named, for gold was all she asked for when she saw the gleaming plate that her bastard prince of a brother wore. Something told Athadra that the man wouldn’t like what she had in mind, though, and she sighed. “Everyone is out for themselves, Alistair,” she said lightly. “You should learn that.”

The prince-come-Warden heaved a sigh. “I...suppose so,” he admitted, looking from Athadra to Leliana, who nodded surreptitiously, and back again. “Should we go get Sten and find this _Marjolaine_ character?”

“Sure,” Athadra replied. “We can...talk about it later, if you like.” She looked to the bard. “All of us.” Despite the half-Orlesian’s frequent declamations about the Maker, especially in the pitch of battle, Athadra could not begrudge her the affection Alistair seemed to share with her, and the Warden had no desire to come between them.

When they both nodded, Athadra turned and led them around the edge of Denerim’s market square. She was in her full Warden glory, just as Alistair sported his brother’s royal armour, so most of the guards gave them a wide-enough berth as they made their way to the gate of Eamon’s estate. The domicile was a touch more modest than his castle at Redcliffe, but still held barracks enough for the troops they’d brought into the city, though Athadra’s party had to share two large sitting-rooms for their quarters. She found the Sten sitting cross-legged in the corner of her own room. “Enjoying yourself?”

The Qunari opened his eyes and regarded the Wardens evenly. “It is not as defensible as I would like,” he admitted, “but it will do.”

Athadra swept a look at the stone walls and high windows, unable to guess at the source of the Sten’s complaint. “It’s been nigh on a week since we’ve killed something,” she lamented; the raid she’d led into the Hinterlands after her conversation with Eamon had hardly counted as sport, much less battle. “Would you like to remedy that?”

“As you wish, Kadan,” the Sten replied, and rose to join the two Wardens and Leliana.

Following the late would-be assassin’s directions, Athadra counted doorways from the South gate of the square until just before a wall rose up to turn the row into a blind alley. “Do you think this is it, Leliana?”

The woman took a breath. “I do,” she confirmed. “I can feel it.” She worked at the lock for over a minute before it clicked open, which only seemed to steel her resolve. Athadra had no time to reconsider, since the moment her companion opened the door, two enormous Qunari mercenaries with stunted horns accosted them. The battle was all too brief; the Sten and Athadra could have taken them in paired combat, but with Garahel and Alistair and a few well-placed arrows from Leliana, the horn-headed guardsmen didn’t stand a chance.

A tall woman with jet-black hair and a fancy silk dress stood waiting for them in the main room of the house, seemingly alone. “Leliana!” She called in an Orlesian accent even thicker than the orange-haired bard’s, spreading her arms expansively in welcome. “I knew you would come to me _finalement_.”

Leliana stepped forward, though her bow was only half-drawn. “You sent a squad of assassins after me! Of course I came!”

“Oh, them?” The woman--whom Athadra guessed was the dreaded Marjolaine--scoffed. “Four or five unfanged dogs. I trained you too well, _tu le sais_.” she said, pride lacing her voice. “They were sent to give you cause to seek me out--and see? Here you are.”

“Why, Marjolaine?” Leliana’s bow angled toward the ground even further, but Athadra’s blood whispered, sensing magic behind the closed doors to either side of them.

The Orlesian woman’s expression shifted subtly, a brow arching. “You know that, too, my little flower. You have information which you could use to ruin me, if you so chose.”

“I wish I did not,” Leliana lamented.

Marjolaine’s laugh was low and sultry, and the woman dared to take a step closer. “Come now, _mon enfante_. Did you really think I would believe that the Seductress of Val Chevin had thrown off the life in exchange for peasant clothes and prayer?” She shook her head, almost sadly. “Hair ragged and messy like a boy’s...this is not you, Leliana. And so I watched, and waited. You nearly had me fooled after so many months with no obvious correspondence, but then you disappeared so suddenly.”

The Warden grunted a laugh. “Everyone disappeared from Lothering suddenly...whether they wanted to or not. At least Leliana decided to stand against the monsters what burnt the village to the ground.”

Marjolaine’s honey-flecked eyes gave Athadra a pitying glance. “Do you really think so?”

Alistair spoke up. “Ask all the hurlocks she’s killed,” he suggested, testily. Something in his stare made Athadra think that he knew more about this woman and her history with Leliana than the Warden herself did.

The Orlesian’s throaty laugh sounded again. “And all with her bow, _n’est-ce pas_? Who do you think trained her to shoot, or to use those daggers at her back?” Marjolaine shook her head. “I also taught her to tell anyone what they want to hear, to make the right friends...to kill her enemies just when they think they’ve won. I would trust nothing she says, if I were you.” Those amber eyes settled on Leliana. “You will use them, my sweet, and when they’ve served their purpose...you will gut them in their sleep and disappear. Such is what I would do.”

Leliana drew in a breath, and Athadra spied tears lurking at the corners of her eyelids. “I’m not like that anymore,” she protested. “I’m not like...you.”

“ _Au contraire_ , _mon enfante_ ,” the Orlesian insisted. “You _are_ me. No one will understand you like I do, because you and I are the same...we play the game-within-the-game, using other players as our pawns. Do not deny this; you were a master manipulator, as I am. You cannot change that for all the prayers in the world.”

“You are wrong,” Leliana hissed, the tears falling openly down her cheeks. “I do not want to play your games anymore. I don’t care that you framed me for your own crimes...just leave me alone.”

Marjolaine clicked her tongue, her head turning from side to side. “You know that I can never do this, _cherie_. I will never be far from you, for as long as you live.”

Athadra stepped sideways, with a meaningful glance at the Sten. “Unless you predecease her,” the Warden suggested, drawing Starfang from over her shoulder.

The raven-haired woman cackled, stepping back. Leliana looked confused for a moment, but then shook her head resignedly. “You’ve left me no choice,” the former lay sister sighed. “Marjolaine...I’m sorry.” She lifted her bow.

“ _Maintenant_!” The woman’s call heralded those two doors opening, and the mages who’d set Athadra’s senses to tingling tried to douse the intruders with living flame.

Alistair reacted instinctively, stilling one with a Holy Smite. He gasped when the move actually worked and the targeted mage staggered back, but Athadra lost sight of him as she launched herself at the remaining magical foe. Like his partner, he was an apostate, but didn’t seem to be a blood mage; when the Warden used her own mana to cancel out his with a Mana Clash, he nearly fainted. She took advantage of his stumble with a great swipe of her sword, which cleaved into his shoulder and stuck itself in the twin barriers of his spine and sternum. Cursing, Athadra drew her daggers to engage with the Qunari mercenary who’d been waiting behind him.

The horn-head fought her stubbornly, but eventually she toppled him, and by the time she yanked Starfang free of its fleshy scabbard, Athadra saw Leliana’s daggers slip into Marjolaine’s abdomen. The older woman looked affronted for a heartbeat, and then shocked.

“ _Com...comment pourrais-toi_?” The Orlesian’s voice gurgled. Athadra could _smell_ the blood on her breath, but she resisted the urge to pull it from the woman.

“Easy,” Alistair supplied, drawing King Maric’s gold-embossed blade across the pale woman’s throat. She fell and jerked for a few moments, but Athadra ambled over to watch the light fade from her eyes.

“She’s gone,” the Warden pronounced, looking back at Leliana. “Let’s go, before Howe’s men get wind of this.”

“We’re covered in blood anyway,” Alistair pointed out. “Surely someone’s going to notice us.”

Athadra arched a brow. “I...think I can fix that,” she ventured. “But you won’t like it.”

The other Warden’s eyes narrowed as he looked at her. “It’s going to be you-know-what, isn’t it?” When the elf nodded, he threw up his hands. “Go ahead, then. Just...don’t do it again, at least not where people can see.”

Athadra swallowed and closed her eyes, running Starfang’s blade across her palm again. The blood staining their armour and weapons was fresh enough to call out to her, and she carefully drew it off of her companions. Their own living blood sang even more temptingly, but the Warden resisted. Her veins throbbed in pleasure as the still-warm life drew into her wound, and she couldn’t repress the smug turn of her lips. Not even the half-concealed horror of her two human companions could dull the pleasure of her deed. “I’ll never get tired of that,” she sighed.

“You’ve done this before?” Alistair looked ready to run straight to the Chantry for sanctuary.

“Once,” the Warden admitted. “And I’ll do it again...just to savour the look on your face.” She winked and put up her blade; it was spotless, just like their armour. “Now let’s move.”

Later, after supper, Athadra met the two of them in Eamon’s bedroom to talk about what they’d both learnt that day. The Warden leaned against the wall by the door, waiting for one of them to speak. Both Alistair and Leliana looked disturbed, though she guessed that neither were still perturbed by her light use of the forbidden art.

The bard cleared her throat. “I can still hear her laughing at me, claiming that I’m just like her.” She was sitting on the bed with her legs crossed, and she looked guiltily into her lap.

Athadra shrugged. “She were a spy. Probably thought you’d be out of practice when she sent the men, and she said whatever she thought would get her out of that house alive.”

“And yet,” Leliana continued, looking from her to Alistair and back again. “What we’ve done--hunted men down, killed them. Part of me loves it. I can feel myself slipping...”

Alistair looked ready to speak, but Athadra pressed on. “I saw you take pleasure in taking on Loghain’s men in Lothering,” she said. “Just as I saw you relish stealing Marjolaine’s life today. Maybe she were half-right.” The Warden breathed a sigh. “For what it’s worth, I do trust you...as much as I trust anyone. I know Alistair trusts you more than that.”

“That’s right,” the other Warden affirmed.

“I would still hunt you down if you ever betrayed him,” Athadra warned; her lips curled into a smirk to soften the threat. “But you shouldn’t punish yourself for doing something you love, despite what the stern old women in sun-robes tell you.”

“I...” Leliana swallowed with some difficulty, and returned the Warden’s smile. “I do miss the game,” she admitted.

Athadra nodded. “And Alistair will need a seasoned player when he takes the crown, with Anora by his side.”

“Exactly,” Alistair concurred, though his face spasmed a split-second later. “Wait...what?” He stood up from the bed. “Where did you get that idea?”

The Warden laughed. “Do you want to be king?”

Alistair’s lips parted in surprise at yet another unexpected turn. “I...well, Eamon certainly--”

“To the Void with Eamon,” Athadra shot back...though barely above a whisper, in case he or one of his servants stood listening. “To the Void with Ferelden, when it comes to that. What do _you_ want?”

The not-quite-templar’s mouth worked for another moment, before he sighed. “Yes,” he exclaimed at last. “Maker forgive me, I do want to be the king. I’ve...wanted it all my life, I think, but everyone’s told me that it’s no use even trying.”

Athadra barked a laugh. “Shows them,” she said. “Anora’s been queen for five years or more. I met Cailan once...and once were all it took to tell me that he’s only ever played at ruling.”

Leliana spoke up. “It is said that Queen Anora is the steady hand that has kept Ferelden stable after King Maric disappeared,” she said. “It...would honestly be a good match.”

“But...” Alistair’s lips turned down in a rare frown.

“She could be your _Maitresse-en-titre_ ,” Athadra suggested, which caused Leliana to blush and giggle.

The taller Warden raised a brow. “My what-in-the-Maker’s-name, now?”

The bard scooted closer to him. “It’s an Orlesian term,” she explained. “It means you’d be able to...have your cake, and still have a pie on the side.” When Alistair’s shock turned to skepticism, Leliana sighed. “It’s done all the time, honestly. King Cailan probably had half-a-dozen mistresses, if the rumours are true.”

“Could be why Anora hasn’t popped out an heir,” Athadra observed.

“Indeed,” Leliana concurred. “While you’ll have just the one,” she said a bit forcefully, though she winked.

“I’ll think about it,” Alistair conceded. “If...if you’re both alright with it,” he said, directly to Leliana. “If I decide to marry her,” he added, with a glance to Athadra. “She is Loghain’s daughter, after all.”

The Warden shrugged. “It’ll make accepting you easier at the Landsmeet. If need be, you could arrange an _accident_ afterward.” Her eyes flickered to Leliana for half a heartbeat. “Just think about it,” she pressed. “It’s your decision, Your Majesty.” Sarcasm dripped from the title as she presented it.

“I suppose it is, isn’t it?” Alistair breathed a laugh. “I will,” he promised. “Think about it, at least.”

Athadra nodded. “Do that.” After a moment’s consideration, she continued. “Do you want to talk about Goldanna?” Alistair opened his mouth to speak, but he must have caught sight of her eyes darting to Leliana.

“Er...no, not really,” he said at last. “I think I’ll be okay.”

The Warden gave a final nod. “Try not to muss the arl’s bed too much,” she admonished them, before slipping through the door. She went off in search of Friga; the Avvar mage had been delighted to accompany Connor to the capitol, and the Warden wanted to let her see the marketplace without fear of the roving templars.


	54. Gravity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wardens' attempts to ingratiate themselves to the Market Square's guards send them to a dockside bawdy house, where Athadra must go against her instincts and dispatch a gang of Howe's thugs without any bloodshed. Once that duty's done, however, the party runs into an old friend of Zevran's, who proves quite keen on making Athadra's acquaintance, as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second half of this chapter includes some explicit sexuality and references to sexual violence, so if such content makes the reader uncomfortable, you may stop reading at the 'demarcator', *~*~*~*.

Athadra felt nearly naked as she stalked into the Pearl, one of Denerim’s finer _establishments_ , according to Sergeant Kylon. More than a week after the Landsmeet had been officially called, Eamon had insisted that she get closer to the man, who headed up the Denerim guard in the marketplace and surrounding districts. The sergeant had been all-too-happy to give her a job that his own men were too scared or too corrupt to perform--rousing a gang of Howe’s mercenaries from Mistress Sanga’s place of business. Kylon had suggested a bit of discretion, since the men would likely try and kill the Warden at the first sight of her griffon emblem just to claim Howe’s and Loghain’s reward; Sanga would not tolerate blood being spilt in her place of business, and the sergeant was keen on remaining in the brothel-keeper’s good graces.

So, with a bit of trepidation, Athadra had left her Warden Commander plate and Starfang in the arl’s care, along with her faithful but all-too-conspicuous mabari hound. She wore hardened leather, as would normally befit a fighter of her stature, and daggers at her hips. Leliana and Zevran were similarly adorned. Alistair had insisted upon accompanying them as well, so he’d traded his gold plate for a jerkin and trousers underlain with chainmail. The house’s matron noticed them at once, and inclined her head toward a knot of rowdy men banging on a table. A scared-looking elf girl was in the process of taking off her clothes.

“Been here for two days,” Sanga lamented under her breath, when the Warden drew near enough. “Already tried to get a little rough with one o’ the girls.”

That was all Athadra needed to hear; she sidled up to a man in fine steel platemail, rapping his shoulder lightly. He glanced back at her with a laugh. “Piss off,” he grunted. “This affair is for White Falcons only. You can watch...from a distance.” His accent marked him out as being from the Northern Free Marches.

Athadra cocked her head. “I hear you’ve been making some noise that’s starting to draw some unwanted attention,” she said in a low voice.

Arching a brow, the well-armoured man gained his feet, the elf behind him evidently forgotten for the elf in front. He was even taller than Alistair, so Athadra had to crane her head back to keep his face in view...but her expression didn’t waver. “And just who told ye tha’, love?”

“Someone who’s got the pulse of your _employer_ ,” she hissed. “Who doesn’t like being embarrassed by his agents.” That got the swarthy man’s attention, and his brow drew down. The Warden’s crimson eyes flashed malevolently. “Trust me...you don’t want to see what happens to people who embarrass him.” Given what Zevran had told her of Howe, Athadra had no difficulty inferring the man’s cruelty.

The White Falcon held her stare, but his eyes wavered uncertainly, while the Warden’s gaze remained steady. “Righ’,” he conceded at last. And then, more loudly, “Boys, party’s over. Be’er not to get on the boss’s bad side.” Despite disgruntled mutterings, the squad moved to obey their leader’s command relatively rapidly, and only a few moments later the table was clear of the mercenaries.

“Give Kylon my regards,” Sanga breathed, her relief palpable. “Someone should really...”

The woman kept speaking, but Athadra’s attention was drawn to a far corner, where a one-sided battle had erupted between a caramel-skinned woman and three larger men. The men wore dirty chainmail and brandished swords, while their opponent wielded an exotic-looking pair of curved daggers but just wore a bodice and boots that seemingly left her little protection and left even less to Athadra’s imagination. The Warden stepped forward to intervene on her behalf, but an unfamiliar palm fell upon her shoulder.

“I would n--” The gruff man backed against the wall as Athadra’s daggers crossed at his collarbones, the blades just tickling against his throat.

“Don’t touch me,” breathed Athadra. Her heart hammered in her ears, and her veins ached to feel the man’s blood surge within them, but she managed to pull back from the brink when he put up his hands in submission.

“S-sorry,” the man stammered. “It is only...the captain, she does not like interruptions, while she works,” he explained.

Athadra arched a brow and glanced into the corner once more. One man sat in a chair, blood trickling from his nose, with the woman’s booted foot planted firmly between his legs. The other two attackers stumbled away, mumbling. “Begone, Selwyn,” the woman purred, drawing one of her daggers against his stubbled jaw. “And be grateful I only took a bit of coin.” Athadra didn’t see what the woman did next, but the man she’d called Selwyn groaned and yielded. He slunk away, throwing a solitary glare over his shoulder as he left.

The woman replaced her daggers behind her back and turned, a grin curling her full lips. “Casavir, tell the men--” She stopped short when her eyes caught on something just above and behind Athadra’s left shoulder. The Warden saw a her expression spasm oddly for half a heartbeat before the woman grinned. “Zevran! What are you doing here?”

The Antivan stepped forward. “I could ask the same of you, Isabela,” he countered with a laugh that seemed a bit too enthusiastic. Athadra arched a brow when she saw that his smile looked forced as well, but after a breath his eyes sparked with the same incorrigible lust she’d come to accept.

The Warden arched an eyebrow and looked from the elf to the woman he’d just named. “You two know each other, I take it?” She felt her throat start to dry out when the woman’s honey-coloured eyes settled on her, and Athadra found that she could not tear her own gaze away.

“Ahh, yes,” Zevran said. “Allow me to make the introductions.” He moved toward a fireplace, until the three made an equal-sided triangle, and he nodded to Athadra. “My ravishing companion here is none other than the Commander of the Grey,” he allowed.

“Athadra,” the Warden supplied, her breath catching in her throat for just a moment as her eyes finally broke free of the woman’s stare, though they landed on the solid gold ornaments wrapped around her impossibly long neck. Athadra spied a smattering of Selwyn’s blood resting innocently on the curve of a heavy breast, and her fingers clenched at her sides.

Zevran chuckled, shaking his head. “And this,” he continued, sweeping a hand to the enticing-looking woman, “is Isabela--Queen of the Eastern Seas, and the sharpest blade in Llomerryn.”

“ _Captain_ Isabela,” she stressed, laying a hand on her hip. “I see you’ve already met my First Mate, Casavir.” She inclined her head to the scruffy man whom Athadra had very nearly decapitated a few moments before. He nodded curtly when the Warden threw another glance in his direction. “And we’re here to stock up on supplies and...other pleasures,” Isabela sighed, smiling to herself. “Before the Blight swallows us all up.”

Athadra’s brows rose when she caught the captain’s eyes giving _her_ a once-over, but she blinked herself back to focus. “Who taught you to fight like that?”

“What, _that_?” Isabela looked back to the corner where she’d handily disarmed three men. “That was just a bit of sport.” She shook her head, nodding to Athadra’s daggers. “You probably could have done the same.”

“I’d have killed them,” Athadra admitted with an irrepressible smirk.

The Antivan spoke up once more. “ _A ella le gusta la sangre_ ,” he explained, gesturing to the crimson splashes which soaked into the captain’s off-white bodice.

“Really?” There was a twinkle in the woman’s eye when she looked at Athadra again. “What else does she like?”

The Warden swallowed, her heart beating a half-tick faster. “Wouldn’t you like to find out?” The tinkling of golden bangles sounded in the elf’s ears as Isabela drew back her head in a full-throated laugh.

“Oh, I like this one,” the captain told the assassin. “Her friends are cute too,” she added, eyes raking over Alistair and Leliana, both of whom decided to take a few steps backward. “We’ll call for a drink, and you’ll honour me with a game, then.”

“Wicked Grace?” Athadra ventured, her eyes flitting to the assassin for a moment.

Zevran snickered. “I may have given her the basics, Isa,” he admitted.

The captain heaved a sigh, and Athadra couldn’t quite tear her eyes away from the sight of the woman’s breasts pushing to escape the confines of her bodice. “Damn,” Isabela lamented. After a moment’s consideration, her head canted to one side. “Did you have something else in mind?”

Athadra looked around her, from Alistair’s concerned face to the silent bouncers who’d been too intimidated to clear off the White Falcons. “You’ve got a ship, aye?”

Isabela’s eyes glinted as she swept a glance at Zevran. “Indeed,” she confirmed. “The _Siren’s Call_ ,” the captain sighed. “Why?”

The Warden’s eyes skimmed over the deep crimson still drying on the captain’s skin and clothes. “I’ve only ever been on one ship before, but it were just for Lake Calenhad. I’d like to see a proper ocean-going vessel, I think.”

The swarthy woman’s cheek dimpled with her smirk. “We could arrange a tour of the captain’s quarters, if you liked.”

Alistair coughed pointedly. “Tell me those two aren’t naughty-talking,” he pleaded. Athadra could feel the heat coming from his ears already, and she couldn’t hold back a barked laugh when she caught his expression over her shoulder.

“We’re not,” the Warden assured him, her lips curling into a grin. “Yet.”

“But...” Alistair’s brow drew down as he looked from Isabela to her first mate and back. “And don’t get me wrong, I’m sure these fine, upstanding mariners wouldn’t know anything about it, but...remember what Eamon told us a few days ago?” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

A chill crept down Athadra’s spine, and she turned back to the captain and Zevran. “Aye,” she sighed. “Got a bounty on me head,” she announced, not bothering to keep her voice down. “Five hundred sovs, so I hear.” She felt her heart skip again when a shimmer of greed passed just behind Isabela’s eyes.

“That’s a _lot_ of rum...” She purred, though she didn’t alter her stance. “What did you do to deserve that?”

“Loghain turned his back on us,” Alistair said, coming to stand firm beside the elf. “Left King Cailan to die, and pinned it on us.”

Athadra snorted. “He pinned it on _me_ , you mean,” she growled. Her fingers twitched just a hair closer to her daggers again. “And I ain’t exactly sure I’d do different, in his boots.” Before Alistair could protest on her behalf, she pressed on. “If you’re interested, you should try to collect soon. I’ve already seen the bastards once since I came to town,” she sighed, still lamenting that Loghain and Howe had simply strolled away from her as though she were an inconvenient pet. “Next time I see ‘em, they won’t be fit to give out their prize.” Her blood whispered again, and she felt the warmth between her legs grow more intense at the prospect of even more blood flowing.

The captain’s eyes hitched at Athadra’s hips and she swallowed, pushing at the golden stud of her lower lip. “I don’t think my hold has room for a chest,” she lamented with a sigh, bringing that honeyed gaze back up to meet Athadra’s stare. “Casavir,” she called without turning.

“Captain,” the man clipped, looking both disappointed and relieved.

“Tell the men that shore leave’s going into tomorrow...” Isabela let on, her tongue swiping over her dark lips. “...evening,” she decided, casting Zevran another look.

“Aye, captain,” came the response.

“Good man,” Isabela replied, swaying her hips as she stepped away from the wall toward the Pearl’s dockside entrance. Athadra’s breath caught in her throat when she spied the stretch of caramel skin between the top of the captain’s thigh-high boots and the hem of the bodice’s undertunic. The Warden hardly noticed that Zevran was just a few paces behind the other woman. Isabela cast a glance over her shoulder. “You coming?”

Athadra found her voice and moved to follow. “I certainly hope so,” she breathed. Almost as an afterthought, she called, “See you tomorrow,” back at her two remaining companions.

 

*~*~*~*

 

The docks somehow smelt worse than Athadra would have guessed from the alleyways she’d crossed to get to the Pearl from Denerim’s marketplace, but the Warden’s nose picked up a thread of cinnamon undercutting the stale fish which she hadn’t noticed amongst the wafting perfumes of the bawdy house. Her crimson eyes swept the dark boardwalk and her ears strained, in case anyone had overheard her proclamation of her own bounty and looked to take her up on it. No one moved to challenge the trio, however, and within moments the captain turned down a narrow pier beside a handsome galleon that sat high in the water.

“Just as beautiful as ever, Isa,” sighed the Antivan. He ran a finger across the smooth wood of the ship’s hull.

Isabela’s smirk deepened. “I keep her nice and tight,” she boasted silkenly. Athadra jumped in surprise when the captain tilted her head back and cried out, “Ahoy, Darryck, I’m coming aboard!”

The Warden heard a low snore cut off suddenly, followed by a boot scraping on solid wood. “Aye, captain,” called a bearded man from above them. Isabela caught the rope bridge that the man she’d called Darryck threw down, and shot Athadra another glance as she stalked up the side of her ship. Zevran signaled for the Warden to follow, and a few moments later, Athadra stood upon the solid deck, admiring the ship’s two masts.

“Gorgeous, is she not?” Zevran’s own eyes did not stray from Isabela as she led them to the quarter-deck under which her cabin lay.

“Aye,” Athadra concurred, her heart skipping again as she caught sight of the captain’s booted leg disappearing into the low doorway. This time, however, the Warden nodded her elven companion on; before following, she swept her gaze back across the shadowy deck, eyes and ears straining for signs of an ambush. The only stirring she noticed was Darryck reeling in the ladder and a bird coming to roost atop the ship’s main mast. With a sigh and a shake of her head, Athadra stepped down into the wooden room.

Even her elven vision had difficulty adjusting to the near-total darkness which greeted her, and the Warden found her fingers sliding around the hilts of her daggers. She sensed Zevran beside her, but Isabela stalked through the chamber with a confidence which suggested that she’d spent many an hour here without the benefit of candlelight.

Athadra heard a sigh from across the room. “Where in the Maker’s toasty trousers...” Then, a moment later, “Ah--here we are.” The Warden did not relax as the captain drew closer. “You think you could light this?”

The elf’s brow drew down. “You know I’m a mage?”

Isabela’s burden rustled with her shrug, and Athadra realized that she must be holding a lantern. “Trader gossip,” she explained. “You supposedly ensorcelled Cailan into killing himself so that Alistair could steal his throne, and the brave Teyrn Loghain thwarted your plan. I thought you’d be taller, myself.” The captain shook the lantern expectantly.

Only a tad reluctantly, Athadra relinquished the grip on her daggers and wrapped her fingers about the old metal and glass. Since Duncan’s tedious lessons with the firestone, she’d increased her facility with primal magic enough to do the delicate task, and after a moment’s concentration the wick took to flame. The Warden clenched her eyes against the sudden burst of light, glad that Isabela still held the lamp firmly, for her hands pulled away from the sudden heat without conscious thought.

“Thanks,” Isabela said, hanging the lantern on a hook by the door. “I know it’s a bit of a mess, but you get used to it, eventually.” The captain retreated, suggestively close to the large bed in one corner of the room.

“It’s brilliant,” Athadra breathed; she took a cursory look at the disheveled cabin before her eyes re-fastened upon Isabela, and the sight was enough to dull her paranoia. In the darkness, the captain had managed to loosen the laces of her bodice, and the elf could tell that it would only take a few insistent tugs to divest her of the garment.

Zevran seemed to have the same idea, for he picked his way through the mess, drawing closer to the captain. “It truly has been too long, _querida_ ,” he whispered. Athadra was very mildly surprised that she felt no hint of envy at hearing him bless another with the appellation he’d so recently come to bestow upon her, but if anything, the Warden craved the pirate’s attention over the assassin’s.

“If you two need to catch up...” Athadra leaned heavily against the door, not bothering to hide the hunger in her eyes as they swept from the toes of Isabela’s boots to the onyx locks of hair spilling from underneath the captain’s headband. The woman evidently caught her gaze, for the Warden saw her chest heave with a half-gasped breath.

“We’ll have time for that in the morning,” Isabela allowed, her own honey-coloured eyes combing over the Warden in their turn. “Right now, I think we should make Zevran sit and think about how long it’s been since he’s seen the inside of this room.”

The Antivan heaved a resigned sigh. “I have already suffered dearly at Athadra’s hands,” he protested half-heartedly.

The Warden caught another flicker in Isabela’s expression, possibly a ghost of a frown, but a blink saw the indulgent smirk return to her lips. “Good,” the captain affirmed. “Saves me doing all the work myself.”

It was Athadra’s turn to close the distance between her and Isabela. Her blood whispered once more, driving everything from her mind but the scent of cinnamon and the low light glinting off of the captain’s caramel skin. Tendrils of warmth licked across her belly and down her thighs as she started working on the buckles of her leather. A spare thought had the Warden glance in Zevran’s direction. “Help me out of my armour,” she breathed, her tone a hair beneath a suggestion. “Then kneel.”

When the assassin moved to loosen her buckles and ease her out of her grieves, Athadra saw Isabela’s eyes widen with curiosity. The captain’s laugh welled up from deep within her chest. “Oooh, can he do me next?”

Athadra dropped her daggers atop the pile of armour, standing in her long undertunic and smallclothes. “As long as you keep your boots on,” she allowed, stealing another glance at the stretch of thigh which Isabela’s outfit exposed.

“Very well,” Isabela agreed, an amused smirk playing about her lips. “But you do have to take off that rag,” she countered. Athadra’s head inclined, and nearly as one, the women divested themselves of the remaining cloth about their torsos. “Now you may kneel,” Isabela purred, sliding a finger along Zevran’s smooth jaw. The Antivan’s groan strained at his throat, but he did as he was bid, still clad in his own leathers. “Don’t worry,” the captain purred as she took off her fingerless gloves. “You’ll get to join us. _Eventually_.”

The Warden found she had no attention to spare on Isabela’s words, for the sight of the captain with nothing but a few scraps of gold from her eyebrows to her hips took nearly the whole of Athadra’s focus. She found that she’d been wrong about the bodice--the garment did little to prepare her for the vision before her. The elf’s eyes flitted from the skull-emblazoned medallions which Isabela wore as earrings, across the golden choker that concealed the greater portion of the captain’s neck and sternum, to the studs glinting from Isabela’s navel and behind her dark nipples. The sheen of gold contrasted nicely with the woman’s flesh; as well, in the lantern’s low light, Athadra spied a couple of scars sitting proudly upon it, which made the sight all the more enticing.

The distance between them closed in a breath. Athadra leapt while Isabela lunged, and the Warden felt the captain’s fingers sink into her flanks as they came together. The jump gave Athadra the advantage in momentum, which sent the pirate tumbling back onto the expansive bed, and the last inches between their bellies disappeared with the weight of the fall. Isabela’s skin pulsed with the warmth of her blood, and it felt supple and soft despite the muscles her hardy life had given her. Morrigan flitted to the foreground of Athadra’s mind for an instant--she’d hardly thought of the Wilds-witch during her infrequent _sessions_ with Zevran, yet somehow, being this close to another woman felt alarmingly near a betrayal--but the moment passed when Isabela’s lips rose up to claim hers. The tang of cinnamon and old rum filled Athadra’s mouth along with Isabela’s tongue, and the Warden felt yet another stud of gold brush against her own when it rose to meet the woman’s agile member.

A groan rose in Athadra’s throat when the pirate’s nimble fingers tangled with the swatch of cloth that still clung to her hips. The Warden’s hands claimed the base of Isabela’s neck and her back arched, but when she tried to break off the fevered kiss to claim some air, Athadra found that her conquest was not quite complete; Isabela surged up from beneath her, flipping the Warden over onto her back and filling her mouth with that eager tongue yet again. Despite her strength, Athadra’s limbs betrayed her, the brush of Isabela’s silken flesh enough to arrest the elf’s need for control...at least for the moment.

At last the captain released her hold on the Warden’s mouth, grinning through fugitive locks of hair recently freed from her bandana. “You may be a commander out there,” Isabela purred, tossing her head toward a curtained window, “but in here, I’m captain.” To buttress her point, the woman sat back for a moment, dragging Athadra’s smallclothes off and tossing them away as though they’d grievously offended her. She rolled her eyes into a glance over her shoulder to the Antivan. “You gonna just sit there all night?”

Athadra couldn’t see Zevran, her attention dominated by the pirate’s breasts. The elf arched up while Isabela’s eyes were still distracted, her tongue landing heavily on the flesh over the captain’s sternum. The Warden shuddered as cinnamon and sweat and the copper tang of the bandits’ blood filled her mouth; the taste slithered down her throat, tingling across her spine to her very core. One of Isabela’s hands roamed down her thigh, a finger teasing across Athadra’s newly-exposed sex. “You weren’t kidding,” mused the captain as her thumb parted the Warden’s nether lips. “A few flecks of crimson have her overflowing...”

“You should take care,” came Zevran’s voice from close behind her, though Athadra was too preoccupied with Isabela’s taste and touch to pay too much attention. “It is not so easy to satisfy her lust, once she has the scent.” Isabela drew in a breath to reply, but as if to prove his point, Athadra’s lips wrapped around one of the pirate’s nipples and she suckled hard, her teeth sinking into the woman’s soft breast.

Isabela hissed and let out a guttural moan before her free hand took hold of Athadra’s curls. The Warden yielded to her grip only reluctantly, her crimson eyes drinking in the sight of Isabela overtop her when the pirate pushed her back down to the bed. The captain’s lower hand ranged across Athadra’s belly, and she traced out the scar curling around the Warden’s flank. “You enjoy taking blood,” Isabela purred. “Can you enjoy giving it, as well?”

Apprehension twinged at the edge of Athadra’s nervous system, even as Isabela straddled the Warden’s right thigh and brought the errant left leg up to her shoulder, nearly bending the elf double. Zevran must have helped Isabela remove her own smallclothes without Athadra’s noticing--when the pirate shifted her hips, her naked sex ground into Athadra’s. The Warden gasped in surprise at the sensation of warm metal and hot flesh, for Isabela boasted a set of three rings through each of her lower lips, with a stud crowning the apex. “I...don’t know,” Athadra finally panted in answer. “D’you want to find out?”

The gleam in the pirate’s eye drove a shiver deep into the Warden’s belly. Isabela drove her hips down into Athadra’s, her hand pawing greedily down the Warden’s flank until she reached her own thigh. Nimble fingers drew a thin shanker from the inside of her boot, and she held it up to the low light. “Are you ready, sweet thing?”


	55. Once Upon A Midnight Dreary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a night and most of a day filled with the pleasures that Captain Isabela's ship has to offer, Athadra must return to the bloody business of navigating Denerim's political seas. Along the way, she winds up playing on both sides of the law, helping Sergreant Kylon restore some bit of order to the Market Square and its environs while also running errands for an agent she never would have expected to assist. Despite it all, it seems that nothing the Warden does can sway the Landsmeet decisively, until an Orlesian elf appears in Arl Eamon's estate with a proposition that Athadra simply cannot decline.

“If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you looked like you’d seen the Void,” quipped Alistair. “But...judging by that smirk, I don’t think I really want to know what you did get up to,” he added hastily, when Athadra’s lips parted. The taller Warden held up his hands and shook his head. “I can imagine well enough, thanks.”

“You can’t, actually,” Athadra sighed contentedly, with a glance at Zevran. The Antivan merely yawned and grunted a string of curses in Antivan; it was nearly nightfall again as they stood in the arl’s small bailey, and both had a few glistening pink mementos of their night with Captain Isabela...though Athadra had given the pirate a few new scars for her own, as well. “Sorry about the White Falcons. I didn’t think they’d get their smalls twisted about so quickly.”

“It is quite alright,” Leliana said, stepping out from a shadowed alcove. The Warden saw the handle of a new axe at her back, in place of one of her daggers. “Sergeant Kylon and his men helped us to deal with them in the alleyway.”

Alistair nodded. “He says he’s got more work for us...well, for you, whenever you’re interested.”

“Were his coin good this time?”

“A couple of sovereigns,” Alistair replied. “Not bad for a bit of intimidation.”

The Warden rolled her eyes. “Bet you never thought you’d _earn_ some money at the Pearl.”

Zevran coughed beside her. “Speak for yourself, Commander.”

A rumbling in Athadra’s stomach stole any reply. “I’ll see to Kylon tomorrow. What of Eamon?”

Alistair shrugged. “Still holed up in the palace with the rest of the nobles. The first session of the Landsmeet will end in a couple of days. One of the pages says the arguments are going in circles, so it looks like we’ll be keeping our heads...for the moment.”

“Like a bunch of sodding dwarves,” sighed Athadra. “I’m for the kitchens. Come on, boy.” Garahel had rejoined her side mere moments after she passed the estate’s portcullis, followed shortly thereafter by Alistair and his bard. The Warden nodded at her companions and fell to harassing the cook; between her and the dog, the poor old woman complained that the larder would be drained by the next tide. When their bellies were full, the elf and canine retired to the room they shared with the Sten and Oghren.

The next day, Athadra took the Qunari and the dwarf along with her to suss out Sergeant Kylon, in the market square. She wore Starfang and her Warden Commander plate, Garahel padding proudly by her side. The man expressed his gratitude with her help, lacing his thanks with complaints about noble bastards and Howe’s _picked men_ in his own ranks, and set her the task of flushing another gang of mercenaries out of a tavern.

“Can I kill them this time?” The blood she’d shed in the captain’s quarters had only whetted Athadra’s appetite.

Kylon sighed heavily. “They’re in the Gnawed Noble--a much more reputable place, just off the square here.” He nodded over Athadra’s shoulder, and she felt a glimmer of annoyance. “As the name implies, the nobility love to gather there. The proprietor, Edwina, says she wouldn’t mind a bit of... _sport_...to amuse her well-bred customers.”

The Warden’s budding disappointment quickened into anticipation. “I understand.” With a nod, she parted company with the sergeant.

As Athadra crossed the square, a foreign merchant caught her attention; she thought of simply ignoring him, but his accent reminded her of Zevran’s, and a few words were enough to imply that he might be involved with the Antivan Crows. His name was Cesar, and evidently his brother Ignacio had a room at the Gnawed Noble, with an offer for the Warden. If not for that happenchance, Athadra might have ignored the opportunity. As things stood, she suspected a trap, but she also trusted the strength of her and her companions’ arms.

The mercenaries styled themselves the _Crimson Oars_. The Warden tried, a bit half-heartedly, to get them to quit the tavern of their own accord...and when their leader refused, she washed the floorboards and the walls with the blood of his men. The important men and women of the realm were all still tied-up in the Landsmeet proper, but many of their children and siblings bore witness to the slaughter, and Edwina had nothing but praise for the ‘sport’.

And so, blood-spattered in her Warden war-glory, Athadra met Ignacio. Though the man had two Qunari bodyguards, he spread his hands out in a gesture of peace. “Even in Rialto, we have heard of the Warden Commander in Ferelden,” he said, by way of greeting. “I am Master Ignacio, and I am very happy to meet you.”

“Athadra,” the Warden volunteered. She’d sheathed Starfang, but kept her own hands within inches of her daggers’ hilts. “You looking for me, or for the man that failed to kill me?”

“I have to say that I have no idea who you’re talking about,” Ignacio intoned very deliberately. “It is true that a guildmaster of the Antivan Crows accepted a contract on your life, but as far as I am concerned, the squadron sent to fulfill the contract was lost...with no survivors. I will take great care not to learn otherwise.”

Athadra’s brow rose, and she couldn’t tell whether the man’s obliquity was meant to threaten her or merely protect himself. “And why would a guildmaster in Antiva care whether I live or die?”

Ignacio shrugged. “Because you have powerful enemies, who wish to see you put to sea without a sail.”

“And leave the country to the mercy of the darkspawn,” the Warden added, her eyes narrowing.

“It was thought,” Ignacio admitted, “that Teyrn Loghain was more than a match for the creatures...while you were untested, and a fool’s bargain. That...is no longer the case.”

“You mean you and he’ve tried to kill me and failed once too often?” Her head cocked as she regarded him, her blood-coloured eyes flashing.

“I must point out that I haven’t ever tried to do anything to you, Warden,” Ignacio said hastily. “Civil war breeds contempt amongst friends, and brings old hatreds to the surface. It is...good for business, if you’re in a particular line of work.”

Oghren swallowed a grunt. “Bit like a plague’s good for the body-cartin’ business.”

Ignacio’s smile was thin, but he inclined his head to the dwarf. “Sometimes, a fellow can get a little...short-handed, I believe you say here. Maybe too many contracts engaged at once for a reputable resolution.”

“Wait,” Athadra spoke up. “You want me to _work_ for you?” Her brow drew down at the man’s inscrutable expression. “Why?”

“As you say,” Ignacio replied. “You have proven yourself a difficult woman to kill. If someone crosses paths with the Crows and lives, they must possess some kind of skill...skill which can come in handy to certain _interested_ _parties_.” He nodded over his shoulder. “If you want, you can take a look at the chest behind me. It might have something in it of interest to you, as well.”

Athadra glanced from Ignacio to his two enormous thugs, but neither seemed to be readying for an assault. “Why would I want to do that?”

“Once a guildmaster has accepted a contract,” said Ignacio, “it is always concluded. The Crows have never rescinded a contract...so you will still be a target of the Crows until either you or the master who’s after you is dead.” When he saw Athadra’s eyes narrowing dangerously, he put up his hands. “But if you _also_ help the Crows out,” he added quickly, “then the other guildmasters may decide to ignore any offers for your head in the future. And when your guildmaster asks for their assistance, he might be answered with silence...yes?”

The Warden hesitated. Part of her wished she’d brought Zevran along, but she didn’t want to risk renewing the Crows’ interest in him. “So I help you out, and you look the other way when I kill one of your guildmasters?”

Ignacio shrugged. “I can only say that _I’m_ not asking you to do anything...I’m just offering you something interesting to read.” His thumb jerked to the chest behind him. “And if something were to happen to anyone you read about, you tell me about it. I will pass the tragic news along, and whoever hears it might be so overcome with grief that they take no further interest in you. How does that sound, Warden?”

“Like shit stewed in piss,” replied Athadra. “But...if you’re telling the truth, I can see the benefit in your offer. If you’re not...” Her voice lowered, but her lips curled into a grin. “Then your associates had better hope that the Archdemon kills me before they try again.” She could see Ignacio’s throat working in a swallow, and she nodded. “I’ll take a look at your papers.”

“Thank you, Warden,” Ignacio sighed. When she’d rifled through a few of the sheafs in the chest and turned to go, he coughed. “I’ll be here, if you should discover any news that I might want to know. Luck be to you.”

Athadra fixed him with her crimson stare for a long moment, before she swept from the room with her companions at her flanks. For the next three and a half days, the Warden played something of a double-agent, taking Alistair with her to clear Denerim’s alleyways of brigands for Sergeant Kylon in the mornings and spending her afternoons with Zevran on the Crows’ business; oddly, her first job involved confronting a gang of kidnappers, and paying their ransom in blood. The Antivan elf accompanied her whenever she returned to the Gnawed Noble to report on the ‘unfortunate accidents’ that she caused for the Crows, and Zevran grudgingly admitted that Ignacio might be trustworthy, but he still cautioned against getting too involved with the assassins’ guild.

En route to the last job in Ignacio’s chest, on the very afternoon that the Landsmeet was called to recess, Athadra thought she’d been betrayed by the shady guildmaster at last; a handsome-looking man stood waiting for them on an alleyway stairwell, flanked by two archers. He seemed unimpressed by the sight of the Warden and her companions, until his eyes lit upon Zevran.

“What are you doing here, Taliesen?” The Antivan sounded shocked and, perhaps, a bit afraid. Athadra’s brow drew down and she strained her ears to hear if anyone else moved in the shadows around them.

“I’ve come for you, of course,” the man said. His tongue lacked the clip of Zevran’s and Ignacio’s, but Athadra couldn’t tell if he was from Ferelden or simply knew the language well enough to pass. “It’s good to see you again, my friend.” His smile seemed genuine enough.

Zevran tensed, but he didn’t reach for his daggers...at least, not yet. “Our guildmaster knows I live?”

Taliesen shrugged. “He suspects...and he isn’t too happy, I’ll tell you.” The Crow pulled a sorrowful expression and shook his head. “You’re a survivor, Zev. I know you’ve done what you had to do...and now you need to make a choice.” Athadra glanced from the Crow to her companion, and she wasn’t too alarmed to see a hint of doubt cross his features. “Come back with me,” Taliesen pleaded. “We’ll make up a story. It’ll turn out alright...I promise.”

“Except,” the Warden interrupted, “you’ll have to make sure I ain’t around to contradict your little story. Right?” Her left hand already rested on the hilt of a dagger, while the fingers of her right scratched at her neck, within centimetres of Starfang’s pommel.

The Crow regarded her warily. “Sadly, yes,” he said with a solemn nod. “Our guildmaster won’t be satisfied without your blood.”

It was Zevran’s turn to cut in. “And I’m not about to let that happen.”

Athadra’s gaze lanced over to him again. “Are you sure?” Her tone was flat, though her heart raced; he stood beside her, the first within striking distance if he’d decided the other way.

Zevran nodded, his eyes still on their guest. “You and I were friends once, Taliesen...friends, and more.” He blinked, but his voice did not shake. “Yet I have been free for some months now, and my bonds would chafe me twice as raw if I took them up again.”

Athadra might have sworn she saw the Crow’s eyes glisten for a heartbeat. “Then you will die with her,” he breathed, and snapped his fingers.

The Warden jumped back without thinking, and she saw arrows crossing midair where she’d stood. Suddenly the alley was alive with men and women exquisitely-trained in the art of murder, and dead set on seeing her to the Void. Zevran proved his loyalty and re-proved his worth; he didn’t hesitate in cutting down his former comrades, even Taliesen. The man had prepared his ambush well, and it was evening before they returned to Eamon’s estate and Friga’s diligent care--all of them had cause to be grateful for Athadra’s foresight in bringing the Avvar mage, for Taliesen’s detachment of Antivan Crows had proved just as hard to kill as the squad Zevran had commanded, so long before.

The elf promised that Ignacio had had nothing to do with Taliesen’s attempt on their lives, and so the next evening, Athadra fulfilled the final contract from the guildmaster’s chest. He swore that no more contracts on her head would be considered--even implying that she would be welcome in Antiva, once she’d seen to ‘her guildmaster’. The Warden promised nothing, but she was relieved that the man hadn’t betrayed her, after all. Sergeant Kylon was also satisfied with her work on his behalf, and on top of paying her decently, he gave his word to spread support for the Grey Wardens amongst the citizenry of Denerim.

At Eamon’s suggestion, Athadra spent nearly all of the following two days in the Gnawed Noble, annoying the high-ranking patrons. The Landsmeet’s recess was to end soon, and if they did not find more support amongst its members, there was real danger of losing their bid to replace Loghain with Alistair. The two Wardens did what they could, but none of the banns or arls seemed willing to offer a firm commitment, one way or another. It became clear that something drastic would need to happen to sway the nobles to the Wardens’ cause...yet, short of the Archdemon appearing atop Fort Drakon, Athadra could not predict what might serve.

On the third day, just as the Warden returned for a midday meal, the answer to her quandary presented itself in the form of a summons to Arl Eamon’s study. When she and Alistair arrived, she saw him already engaged in conversation with an elven maid.

“...I am afraid ‘e does not even feed ‘er!” The elf exclaimed, her Orlesian accent bleeding through nearly every syllable. Athadra cleared her throat, and Eamon blinked at them.

“Ahh,” he sighed. “Champion, may I present to you Erlina, handmaiden to the Queen.”

Athadra arched a brow. “What’s she doing here?”

“I am ‘ere to save my mistress!” Her voice was raw, and several strands of her fine, dark hair had escaped from her bun. “Teyrn Howe ‘as locked ‘er away,” she claimed.

“It would make sense,” Eamon said. “I was surprised to hear Anora venture to speak in moderation at the Landsmeet.” When the Warden merely inclined her head, the arl continued. “She urged that the branding of traitor be lifted from us, claiming that we sought the same ends as her father,” he explained.

Alistair scoffed. “Funny, I didn’t think the bastard was suicidal.”

Erlina shook her head. “In private, in confidence, she ‘as said much more than that for your cause. She...believes that ‘er father...’e killed King Cailan, Andraste bless ‘is soul.”

“Could be a trap,” Athadra pointed out. She’d had a fair bit of experience with them over the last week, after all.

At this, the handmaiden wailed. “It is not! I swear it on my life!” She’d nearly shredded a fine silken handkerchief in her anxiety. “Teyrn Howe ‘as ‘er as a _guest_ for ‘er _protection_ ,” she lamented. “I believe ‘e means to kill ‘er before the next recess, and try to frame you for the murder!”

“Or,” Alistair spoke up, “she could already be dead...and this ‘rescue mission’ could be part of his plan.”

Before Erlina could protest further, however, Athadra shook her head. “If that’s so, there’s little we can do to gainsay him anyway.” Her fists clenched at her sides. “From what we’ve heard of the new Teyrn of Highever, I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

Arl Eamon laid a hand on Erlina’s shoulder to help calm her. “What do you propose, Champion?”

The candlelight caught Athadra’s blood-coloured eyes as she shared a glance with the arl. “I’m going to kill the bastard,” she assured him. “And if Anora still lives, I’ll deliver her to you.”

“That would tip the balance,” Eamon reasoned. “Though we cannot see which direction the scales shall tilt. Tread carefully, Champion.”

Erlina composed herself as best she could. “We must prepare, then. I can get you and a few companions into the teyrn’s estate disguised as guards. The Maker willing, we shall ‘ave my mistress ‘ere before eventide.”

“Very well,” Athadra acceded; she gathered Leliana, Zevran, and Alistair to the task...the first two because they were the least conspicuous, and her fellow Warden because he refused to stay behind. She agreed, and supposed he had a right to witness the fall of one of Loghain’s trusted men, after all.


	56. The Impaler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wardens have resolved to rescue Queen Anora from the clutches of the Teyrn of Highever, who also happens to be the Arl of Amaranthine and of Denerim. Whether by betrayal or bad luck, however, the party is ambushed on their way out of the estate. The queen manages to escape, but neither Athadra nor Alistair are quite so lucky...and after more than a day of torture, they must seek their own escape from Fort Drakon, or else be condemned to die at the end of a traitor's knot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is definitely an 'M' chapter. See endnote for more revealing trigger warnings.

“Maker spit on you,” gurgled Rendon Howe, as he lay dying on his own dungeon floor. He was an old man, with more salt than pepper in his hair, but he’d fought Alistair nearly to a standstill while Athadra and the others dispatched his two pet mages. “I...deserved...more!”

Alistair leveled his sword at the man’s throat. “You deserve as much as you gave to Riordan and Oswyn and the rest,” he snarled. The first man was an Orlesian Warden they’d freed from a small cell, while the second was a nobleman’s son they’d cut down from a rack. Both had been tortured, and yet they still fared better than a few of the other prisoners in Denerim’s dungeon. The bastard prince scoffed when Howe gave no reply, and Alistair stalked away.

Athadra opened the teyrn’s throat with a dagger, just to make sure. Once again, in the interests of discretion, she’d left her magic-enhancing greatblade behind--not that discretion had served them well. The ill-fitting armour which Erlina provided had gotten them into the estate through the back door, but almost immediately, one of the serving wenches raised a hew and cry; evidently Howe, like his predecessors the Kendalls, did not allow elves into his guard. Now the halls of the Arl of Denerim’s estate ran as red as the dungeons, cobblestones and floorboards soaked with the blood of fools. The Warden shook her head as she picked over Howe’s corpse, and she wondered how many were still to die in the shadow of his failed ambitions.

A key let her open the cells in their immediate vicinity; one held a corpse, likely the subject of Howe’s visit before the Wardens had interrupted him, but the other two had living occupants. The self-proclaimed Arl of Denerim, Vaughan Kendells, threatened to flay them all alive from the comfort of his own cell.

“Wait,” Zevran cautioned, as Athadra moved to abandon the man to his fate. “Is this not the man that the elf told us about? Who liked to _take liberties_ with the young brides of the Alienage?”

“As is my right as their arl,” the man pronounced, gripping the iron bars of his cell tightly. “Now get me out of here!”

The Warden turned to face Kendells, her face an unpainted canvas. “What’ll I get in return?” Her blood whispered at the back of her mind, yearning to be joined by his, and she let a bit of that hunger show in her eyes.

Kendells took the bait, mistaking her look for avarice. “You--you’re brigands, right?” When Athadra inclined her head, he swallowed his distaste. “There’s a chest in my room with a small fortune in it.” He closed his mouth and worked his tongue until a small iron key poked out from between his lips. “Here,” he said through clenched teeth. “You’ll get it when I get out of this cell.”

Zevran looked alarmed when Athadra opened the cell, but a cold glance silenced his complaints. She handed the key off to Leliana for safekeeping, but when Kendells moved to push past them, Athadra stepped fully into his path.

The man sneered at her. “Let me pass,” he demanded. “That was our arrangement.”

Even though Athadra had to tilt her head back to meet the man’s gaze, she showed no sign of compliance. “Tell me, shemlen,” she breathed. “Did any of the girls ever protest your _liberties_?” The Warden still held the dagger bathed in Howe’s blood, and at last the so-called arl had the wisdom to look nervous.

“I...what...that’s no concern of yours. Go get your _gold_ , and leave me.”

“Funny,” Athadra breathed, her crimson eyes glinting. “That’s exactly what I had in mind.” His throat opened even more easily than the teyrn’s had, and his scream of surprise launched a spray of blood directly into Athadra’s face. A hand clamped down on her shoulder as she licked her lips, shuddering at the hot-copper taste, but Alistair shook her out of her reverie before she could call up more of Kendells’ life from his slowing heart.

“Remember, you swore,” the taller Warden reminded her. “Not in front of _guests_.” The arl had fallen, nerveless at their feet, but Alistair motioned to the third cell.

Athadra shook the whispers out of her head and took hold of herself. “Right,” she affirmed, and she was glad that she had; the dungeon’s last remaining occupant turned out to be a half-mad templar, crazed in the midst of lyrium withdrawal, but she wouldn’t trust him to conveniently forget an incident of blood magic, for all that. He babbled and refused to abandon his cell, but he gave them a ring to pass along to his sister--a bann in residence for the Landsmeet--and so they left him to stew in his memories.

Just as Kendells had promised, they found a small chest beneath a bed in one of the chambers. Within was hoarded forty sovereigns, a string of pearls, and a ruby-encrusted chalice of silver banded with gold. Again, Athadra looked to Leliana, since her bow-work generally kept her well back from melee fighting, and the Warden couldn’t assume a simple stroll back to Eamon’s estate. The bard shut up the chest and made room for it in her pack, trading some of her supplies for space.

In the hallway, Erlina stood waiting with Anora, dressed in armour stripped from one of the guardswomen. “It was just as you said,” the elf greeted them. “The barrier to my mistress’ room faded not ‘alf an ‘our ago.” The magic had been completely unresponsive to Alistair’s talents, which made Athadra certain that it had been cast in blood.

“Yes, well,” the Queen of Ferelden sighed, clearly uncomfortable in her bloodied garb. “Let’s begone from this place, before we’re caught literally red-handed.”

“And red-faced,” Alistair pointed out, glancing at Athadra’s blood-stained visage. She rolled her eyes at both him and the woman she’d suggested he take to wife, and took the lead out to the estate’s entrance hall...only to stop up short, when a formidable-looking woman stood in front of a line of archers.

“I am Ser Cauthrien,” the woman announced in a cool voice, a magnificent greatblade already in her grip. “You are to face charges for the murder of Teyrn Rendon Howe and his men-at-arms...as well as kidnapping the Queen of Ferelden.” Her gaze lit upon Anora, badly-disguised as the sovereign was. “Come quietly, and you will live.”

Athadra’s throat dried in a heartbeat; every single arrow was pointed at _her_ , and she knew that her poor scalemail was unequal to them. The moment dragged out in her mind--on some level, she knew her heart was racing away in her chest, but every beat seemed to take half an Age to strike against her ribs. The better part of her considered surrender--surely now that Howe was dead, Anora could seek more of her _moderation_ in the Landsmeet, and possibly secure Athadra’s release. But a frisson of dread split her spine, visions of her confinement in the Circle Tower rising from the muck of her darkest memories, and she knew in an instant that she could never willingly see the inside of a cage again. With a quick look over her shoulder to Zevran and Alistair, she muttered, “Get her out of here. Now.” Before either of them could respond, she stepped into the hall.

“No further,” Cauthrien called. “Surrender your weapons.”

The Warden crossed her arms over her belly, gripping her daggers tightly. “I can’t do that,” she called, hearing her long-dead fellows chant in her memory. _In_ _death_ , _sacrifice_. “I’d rather die.” When she took another step, Athadra’s flesh and armour took on the ghostly quality of the Arcane Warrior she’d become in the Brecilian Forest, and she launched herself at the knight with a cry to match the clash of her daggers with Cauthrien’s sword. The woman matched her blow-for-blow, turning the longsword so deftly that Athadra’s daggers could not find purchase.

The elf’s borrowed armour offered no more protection from the archers than she’d expected, but her proximity to their commander stayed many of the bowmen’s strings. A stumble saw the Warden retreat a step down the stairs, distance enough to risk a shot, and fire seared into her shoulder as an arrowhead buried there. She did not see the others getting away, but when the hilt of Cauthrien’s greatblade shattered her nose into a dozen pieces and darkness stole over her, Athadra’s last hope was that Alistair had escaped with Anora.

The Warden had thought that death was the end to pain--the Void, as the Chantrists called the place-that-wasn’t where unrepentant sinners went to disappear utterly, where there was nothing to feel or think, not even blackness. Just _nothing_. And yet there had been darkness, as heavy as a snowbank, and bouts of agony almost great enough to claw that darkness back.

Pain bloomed across her non-existent face, and her flesh came back into her focus as tendrils of agony licked down her neck to her shoulders, her flanks, and...deeper in her abdomen. As slowly as a sunrise, Athadra realized that she wasn’t dead after all. The low light of the dungeon stabbed into her eyes when she opened them, and her wrists and ankles ached where manacles had bitten into them. With a sickening jolt, the Warden knew that she hadn’t seen a rack, but her limbs _had_ been held apart in the night, while she lay on the brink of death.

A clammy finger poked at her shoulder, and Athadra felt a surge of panic rise that she’d thought she'd left behind in the Circle Tower. Unable to think, unable to breath, the Warden simply _acted_ ; she grabbed the stranger’s offending hand, using him to lever herself up. An instant later, her fingers fastened about the man’s throat like an iron vice, and he fell back into the bars of their cell with a strangled cry of surprise.

“A...Ath...” The man’s blue eyes registered shock, but not a hint of malice, and a familiar susurrus sounded from her blood, cutting through the terror and desperation that overwhelmed her senses. The Warden recognized Alistair at last, just as the light began to fade from the edge of his vision, and she threw herself back from him with a half-concealed sob.

“I...sorry,” she called thickly, after she’d backed into the bars in the opposite corner of the cell.

The other Warden coughed and caught his breath, before he blushed and looked away from her. They were both naked as they’d been on their namedays. “It’s...alright,” he managed. “You were calling out in your sleep...well, _screaming_ , even worse than a darkspawn-dream.” Alistair swallowed with difficulty.

“What are you doin’ here, Alistair?” Now that she’d regained her senses, Athadra’s eyes narrowed.

“I told you I wasn’t leaving you again,” the man said stubbornly, forcing himself to look at her. “The Queen is safe--the guards complained about Zev and Leliana slipping through their fingers.” His grimace drove a spike into her gut as he looked over her. “Are you...alright?”

Athadra’s hands shook as she felt over her ribs and legs. Nothing was broken--save her nose--but the ache that settled between her thighs confirmed the cause of her earlier panic. “I’ll live,” she hissed through her teeth. “You might want to close your eyes, though,” she warned him as she felt the ruin that her nose had become.

“Why?”

Alistair tilted his head, but she saw him comply with her advice just before she turned her face into the bars and smashed the cartilage against the iron. Fresh blood rose in answer to the assault, and she used the life energy it gave to guide her healing energy. After a moment, she’d reshaped the hard flesh so that she could breathe again. It was still squashed a bit flat, but it would serve until she could see a competent healer.

“Are _you_ alright?” Athadra looked her companion over, and saw that he hadn’t avoided the guards’ rough handiwork, either. Fresh bruises crisscrossed his torso and thighs.

Alistair shrugged. “I’ll live,” he shot back. “At least for a few minutes.” She heard his stomach rumble, and felt her own tighten in sympathy. “We’re in Fort Drakon. I think it’s been about a day,” he supplied, answering her unvoiced queries. “They haven’t fed us, and it doesn’t look like they’re going to. There’s a guard at the door, but no one else here.”

“Except for corpses,” the Warden supplied; as bad as her nose was, even she could smell the decay and offal wafting up from some pit nearby.

“They’re stacked down there,” Alistair confirmed. “There’s a rack, too--I saw it on the way in. Looks like when the guests die on it, they just toss them onto the pile.” He shuddered and looked at her again; his lips parted, but he seemed to think better of it.

Athadra’s brow arched. “What?”

Another swallow, and Alistair shook his head. “Well, there were more guards here when we arrived. They took you down the stairs, and I...thought you wouldn’t come back up again. Then some others came for me.”

The elf drew in a breath and set her fingers to work, guiding her healing light into her belly. The pain within her receded, but didn’t entirely subside. “Looks like we both made it,” she breathed.

Alistair’s smile was tinged with a bit of sadness. “Now how in the Maker’s name do we get out of here?”

Athadra glanced back at the single guard at the door; he eyed them warily, but wasn’t close enough to hear their conversation. Nevertheless, she mouthed ‘Be quiet’ to her fellow Warden. Her stomach clenched at the plan she’d come up with, but she swallowed hard, and eased herself to her feet. She’d cut through too many bastards and Blighted wretches to let a single guard stymie her. The Warden turned to face the man, doing her level best to remember Isabela on top of her. “You,” she called, hoping the hitch in her voice hadn’t come from fear.

The man sneered, but his eyes caught on the sight of her, pressed up against the bars. “What ye want, kife-ear?”

The Warden licked her lips, taking strength from the remnants of blood her nose had given. “I feel...lonely,” she replied, and she let her tongue slither over the rusted iron of the bar beside her face.

The guardsman’s eyes widened, but then he stopped short, wariness crossing his features. “You got the bastard with ye,” he observed. “Why’ncha straddle him? I can watch jus’ fine from here.”

Athadra forced herself to laugh. “ _Him_?” A disdainful glance showed her Alistair’s concern, but she subtly shook her head before returning to her quarry. “He weren’t man enough for me. You look like you just might be.”

“Oh, I know I am, at that,” the guard said with a leer. “Already had ye, I have,” he boasted.

The elf’s grip tightened on the bars, but she fought down the urge to scream. With a steadying breath, Athadra found her voice. “Aye,” she conceded. “Whilst I were knocked out cold, just...layin’ there.” One finger at a time, she took one of her hands off of her bars and let it slide down her flank, to her hip. “Wouldn’t you like to say you’d had me screamin’ on top of you? Something to hold over the other gents what tacked me to the table, aye?” Her eyes narrowed and her breath caught, just as a finger traced across her thigh. “What do you say?”

A moment of indecision passed, but the guard’s eyes didn’t move away from the Warden’s finger, and when it nearly disappeared inside of her, he finally gave her a nod and moved closer. “Alright,” he acceded. “Step back from the door, now...”

Athadra did so, backing up to the filthy brick wall that the cell had been erected against. Alistair still seemed alarmed, but he made no move to stop the guard when he opened the door and crossed the threshold. The Warden didn’t need to force the hungry smirk that crossed her lips as the man worked at his chainmail skirt, for her blood was already whispering to her, urging her on. “Come closer,” she urged him, her heart pounding a symphony in her ears.

When the guard took a step forward, she let out the scream she’d offered up, launching herself at him with such force that he fell back over the threshold, halfway out of the cage. Before he’d hit the ground, Athadra threw off his helmet and tilted his head back, so that the crown of his skull was the first to hit the stone floor. A crack sounded, cutting his own yelp of surprise short, but the Warden yanked his head up and plowed it down onto the stone again, still screaming. The man’s blood sang to her as it pooled beneath the mangled wreck of his skull. Without thinking, Athadra reached for the shortsword at his back, yanking it free from its scabbard with a grunt.

“Athadra...”

Alistair’s voice sounded wary, and slightly disturbed, but the elf paid it no mind. Instead she ran her left arm down the edge of the stolen blade, opening her flesh from wrist to elbow. Her blood flowed freely, but it never hit the body beneath her; the crimson droplets rose in a haze about the Warden, soon joined by the dead guard’s lifeblood, until she saw nothing but red all around her. The blood mist swirled in ever-tighter circles, caressing her skin and soothing her hurts until it soaked into her veins through the gash in her arm. Not a drop remained anywhere near the cell; the dead man lay utterly drained. As she stood, the Warden felt his lifeblood blending with hers, causing her veins to hum with pleasure.

“Maker, I’ll never get used to that,” Alistair swore, but he got to his feet easily enough. “What’s your plan?”

The Warden had already discovered the crate that held their weapons and the ersatz armour Erlina had somehow procured for them. Along with their share of the poultices and other stores, Athadra found Morrigan’s ring, and she slipped it onto her third finger without a second thought; a shiver crawled up her arm when she felt that it was still warm, just like the witch’s skin had always been. “Plan?” Athadra scoffed offhandedly, as she tossed Alistar’s chainmail at his feet and started to don her own scales. “I’m going to carve a crimson river out of this gods-damned hole. You?”

Alistair grunted his assent, and after a few moments, the pair of them were armed and armoured once more. Athadra kept her found blade, dual-wielding it with one of Duncan’s daggers, while the human Warden readied his sword and shield. Like her, he’d left his more conspicuous weapons in Eamon’s care, but his unadorned blade would serve. They both gave a few practice swings, and when Alistair winced, Athadra set about easing the worst of his bruising over his protests; whether he could tell that her mana was still drained, and so knew she was using stolen blood to fuel his own healing, the elf didn’t bother asking.

“Ready?” She asked, when his bruises had melted away. He nodded to her, and together, they emerged from Fort Drakon’s dungeon and stepped into the maelstrom. Athadra was at once disturbed and grateful that she hadn’t been truly conscious for her _special_ _treatment_ , for while her imagination grafted guilt into every man’s face she came across, some part of her knew that most of the raw boys she put down were little more than peasants conscripted by Howe himself. Yet, in plain armour and dull arms, the two companions acquitted themselves as Grey Wardens, bringing death to any foolish enough to stand and fight them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains direct allusions to non-consensual sex, as well as a bit of explicit sexuality and explicit violence.


	57. Sanctuary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athadra and Alistair make their escape from Fort Drakon, meeting up with a would-be rescue party along the way. In the relative safety of Eamon's Denerim estate, the Grey Wardens tend to their wounds and plan their next moves. Athadra also comes to understand more about the Sten than she'd ever imagined that she would.

Just inside the entrance to Fort Drakon, Athadra and Alistair stopped short. “Is that...” the taller Warden began, before Athadra stepped forward.

“Sten?” She tilted her head. “And Oghren.” Both were dressed in the most ridiculous outfits Athadra had ever seen, and she had spent a decade living with mages. The Qunari and the dwarf wore billowing fabric, cut in red, green and gold. In a parody of their size difference, the Sten’s shirt and leggings were far too long, while Oghren’s cuffs ended at his elbows and knees.The matching pair seemed just as shocked to see the Wardens, as well, looking behind them at the trail of twitching and groaning soldiers the fugitives had cut down in their efforts to escape.

The Sten inclined his head. “I told them that you would free yourself, Kadan, but the elf and the woman insisted a rescue be attempted.”

“And so you decided to wear dyed canvas?” Despite everything, Alistair still managed to laugh.

The dwarf huffed. “Was my idea,” he said defensively. “Treetop here wanted us to lay down an assault. Don’t go denyin’ it, neither,” he warned, when the Sten made a scoffing noise. “The singer and the Antivan wanted to sneak in, but I knew they’d be watchin’ fer that.” He pulled on one of his beard-braids, thoughtfully. “So I figured we could be part of a mummer show, get far enough in to lay hand on some swords, and get halfway to Dust Town before they knew what hit ‘em.”

“The subterfuge would have been adequate,” the Sten conceded, if a bit grudgingly. “Obviously, it was not needed.”

Athadra grinned and elbowed Alistair in the flank; the man had turned red with barely-concealed laughter. “Our heroes,” she pronounced. “Now, let’s clear out before half of the Fereldan Army comes calling about what happened to all their new recruits.”

With a cry of general assent, the four fell into a quick march away from the tower, into the deep shadows of evening in Denerim. If Athadra’s stay had been under more pleasant circumstances, she might have appreciated the subtle magic in Fort Drakon’s engineering--another testament to Tevinter might, a whole continent away from Minrathous. As it was, she hoped never to see the building again. Luckily, the sight of two blood-spattered warriors flanked by a pair of mummers was enough to keep anyone from halting them along the road, and they made it back to Eamon’s estate just as the sun set.

“Thank the Maker!” The arl exclaimed, when they stepped into his study. His beard was ragged and his long hair lay a mess around his shoulders, but he moved with surprising quickness, folding Alistair into a bearhug that nearly lifted the younger man off his feet. “Andraste’s arse, boy,” Eamon growled, taking Alistair by the shoulders. “What were you _thinking_?”

The tall Warden seemed temporarily dumbstruck by the blasphemous curse that his caretaker had let slip, so Athadra spoke up. “He made a decision for once,” she barked. “And both Anora and I are alive on account of it.”

The named woman stepped out from a shadow, with Erlina by her side. In their absence, the queen had changed into a fine, salmon-pink gown, which she now straightened nervously. “That is true,” she admitted. “If Alistair had not remained behind, I fear Ser Cauthrien would have murdered the Commander and set to work finding the rest of us.”

“And now you’ve ruined your shirt,” Alistair said, finding his tongue at last. The blood of too many recruits had stained Arl Eamon’s finery during their embrace.

“Silk and cloth-of-gold can be replaced,” Eamon replied. “The last scion of Calenhad is not quite so expendable.” The older man pinched the bridge of his nose. “Even so,” he admitted after a moment, “that was very gallant of you. Maric would have been...proud. And impressed at your ingenuity in escaping.”

“That was all Athadra’s doing,” Alistair insisted, but a sharp glance from the elf cut off any further explanation he might have tendered. “So,” he said, looking from Athadra to Anora. “Howe’s dead, along with a great deal of his picked men. What does that mean for the Landsmeet?”

The arl sighed heavily. “The recess has been extended, ostensibly until your trial,” he informed them. “Though of course that’s not happening, now. We have Ser Cauthrien’s word that the Warden Commander was responsible for Howe’s murder and the queen’s abduction, but now that you are delivered, there is no firmer evidence.”

“Unless they lay siege to this place and drag us back,” Athadra mused, a shadow in her voice.

Anora spoke up again. “That will not happen, unless my father wishes to set the whole of the Landsmeet against him.” She glanced at the rivulets of blood staining the two Wardens. “There is still a truce, as tenuous as it is.”

“Put the worry from your mind,” Eamon assured them. “Your work has already swayed a few nobles. Bann Alfstanna retrieved her brother from Howe’s dungeon not an hour after Leliana presented his ring to her, and Bann Sighard’s son Oswyn has spread word of Howe’s villainy to any who care to hear.” The arl shook his head. “Rest now, both of you. You’ve certainly earned it.”

Anora stepped forward again, looking directly at Athadra. “We shall speak upon the morrow, Commander,” she pronounced with a nod, as though the matter were already decided.

“I’m sure we will,” the elf replied, exhaustion exuding from every syllable. “Arl,” she said with a small bow, by way of dismissing herself, and the Warden swept from the study without elaboration. Alistair was not long in following her, but they parted company soon after, retreating to their respective rooms. Her two saviors had already changed back into their armour, as though they expected the assault that Athadra had speculated about a few moments before.

“Unless you want to see your boss naked,” she told Oghren, “you should clear out.” Garahel had already glued himself to her shins, as though he didn’t intend to let his mistress wander anywhere without him again.

The dwarf swallowed a belch. “What about treetop over there?”

“I can take him,” the Warden boasted, sharing a glance and a hint of a smirk with the Sten. “Out,” she repeated. “And get Nigella to arrange a bath for me, here.”

“Aye, alright then,” Oghren sighed, and he stalked away, muttering about _sodding_ _ungrateful_ _elves_ under his breath.

Without a care, Athadra pulled off her gloves and boots, and by the time the servant, Nigella, had brought a washbasin and filled it with water, Athadra’s shoddy armour lay in a pile by the door. “Get rid of it,” she told the elven servant. She kept only the daggers she’d found in the desolate valley of Ostagar, and she didn’t intend to wear anything but her Warden Commander plate again until she’d come face-to-maw with the Archdemon. It wasn’t until she’d shirked her filthy undertunic and sank into the tub that Oghren’s question loomed in her mind again, and the Warden glanced over to the Sten. He sat with his eyes closed, lips curled in a customary frown, but she could tell that he was still alert.

“Why ain’t I afraid of you?” She wondered aloud, after she’d scrubbed much of the blood from her hair.

“I did not think you were afraid of anything, Kadan,” he said placidly, and then his violet eyes opened to sweep over her.

Athadra braced herself for a shiver, but it never came. “I am,” she admitted in a small voice. Her throat grew thick. “Afraid of men looking at me, and touching me.” She did shudder, then. “...except you, and maybe Alistair.”

“And the elf,” the Sten pointed out, his tone even.

“Aye,” the Warden conceded. “But those two...it took awhile for me to get used to them. But I were never skittish with you.”

“Do you fear death?”

The question hung in the air for a few breaths. “No,” she said at last. “This past year, I’ve seen things much more frightening than the end of the light.”

The Sten finally looked away, and Athadra saw that a fine painting took his attention. “I believe you do not fear the prince’s touch,” he began, referring as always to a person’s role rather than their name, “because he is one of the few male bas who may be mentally incapable of injuring a woman the way you have been injured.” Something in his voice told Athadra that he suspected her more recent _injuries_ , but she was grateful he did not press further.

“I...could believe that,” Athadra admitted, on reflection. “And what of Zevran? Do you think him capable?”

“I am not certain he is not,” the Sten said deliberately. “Only that you could crush the elf with your off-hand, were he to try.”

The Warden managed a small chuckle. “Sometimes, I like to try and crush him with my off-hand, regardless,” she mused, letting herself remember a few of the Antivan’s particularly beautiful whines. After a moment she shook the memory off. “And yourself?”

“I am physically incapable, and mentally disinclined to even make the attempt,” the Qunari said, with just a hint of a sigh. He glanced at her again, and must have seen the question in her expression, for he sighed once more. “The Tamassrans deemed me unfit for copulation,” he explained. “When I reached sexual maturity, I was partly excised, and after I attained my present size, the procedure was completed.”

Athadra blinked several times as he spoke, not quite comprehending, until it hit her in a rush. “ _What_?! Why?”

The Sten rolled his eyes, as though explaining for the twelfth time to a child why the grass was green and the sky blue, instead of the reverse. “Tamassrans are responsible for breeding those of the Qun. They decide who is fit, and which pairs are matched for the season. The Qun forbids the production of children across races.”

“That...didn’t actually answer my question, Sten,” the Warden pointed out. “Do Qunari not have sex for pleasure?”

“Many do, on occasion,” he informed her. “Copulation for reproduction is strictly controlled, and rape is utterly forbidden, but recreational copulation is one of the permitted forms of leisure.”

“Then...why would they cut off your--”

“My mother was Kossith,” the Sten cut in. “My father an elf. My birth should not have been, since it is forbidden by the Qun.” There was absolutely no bitterness in his voice, nor consternation in his expression. Athadra thought she saw a tightening around the edges of his eyes, but that might’ve just been her imagination. “When I submitted myself to the Qun and the care of the Tamassrans, there was no question.”

Athadra felt like she’d swallowed a bucket of nails; in all he’d told her so far of Qunari society, it had seemed...almost preferable, to the chaos and uncertainty of life in the rest of Thedas. But she’d come to revel in that chaos, and this unquestioning obedience left her cold. “And yet you are a Sten of the Beresaad,” she observed, a bit of ice slipping into her voice.

“The Qunari waste nothing,” said the Sten, plainly.

Any reply the Warden might have mustered was silenced when a small knock sounded on the door. “Who calls?”

“It is Friga,” came the answer, muffled by the wood. “Oghren said you weren’t to be disturbed, but Alistair insisted that I see to you.”

Athadra felt fine, but she learned long ago never to pass up an opportunity to see a healer. “Enter,” she allowed. “But only you.”

The Avvar mage opened the door and closed it firmly behind her before sweeping to the side of the tub. “Alistair told me...what happened,” Friga began, delicately. “May I examine you, Commander?”

The Warden heaved a sigh and stood from the water; it had grown cold, in any case. A few bruises and scrapes graced her flesh, relics of her escape, but there were still deeper hurts that her mediocre skills hadn’t been able to mend. Without another word, Friga sent a few waves of greenish energy probing over the Warden’s limbs and through her torso. A few tendrils darkened, while others shifted to an ethereal blue, and Athadra felt her deep aches melt away. After a few more heartbeats, the healer’s magic faded, and the woman nodded.

“You were very lucky,” Friga observed.

“I were unconscious,” Athadra countered. “If I’d know what the bastards were doing to me, I’d have fought them off until they killed me.”

The colour drained from the human mage’s face, but she only nodded. “Commander,” she said with a bow, turning to leave.

“Wait,” Athadra called after Friga, just as she reached the door. “What happened to Riordan? He were in pretty bad shape when he left Howe’s dungeon. Did he make it?”

“He did,” Friga informed her. “He was lucky, too. Any later, and he’d have lost his hand.”

“Where’d he go?” The Warden had expected him to remain.

The healer shrugged. “Said he had business in the city, and that he’d be back. I haven’t seen him since, Commander.”

“Very well,” Athadra allowed, nodding the woman’s dismissal. Though she hadn’t taken the cup, Friga played at being under her command admirably, even amidst Athadra’s traveling companions. Once she was alone with the Sten, the Warden slipped into her Commander plate in silence, and settled down to sleep with Starfang glowing beside her bedroll.

Only a few hours later, Athadra’s empty belly conspired with her nightmares to drive her awake. She heard Oghren snoring almost immediately, and quickly looked away when she saw his bare, freckled legs; evidently his trousers had walked away _again_ while he slept, a fact he liked to blame on the _sodding_ _dog_. Rolling her eyes, the Warden picked up her sword and stalked from the room and sought out the estate’s larder, with Garahel yawning at her heels.

When she found the room, it was already occupied. She’d thought the faint whispers in her blood were a holdover from the darkspawn-dream, but when she saw the man’s close-cropped beard, she understood. “Riordan,” she announced, sleepily. He’d claimed to be ‘born and bred’ in Highever, but he was the Senior Warden of Jader, in Orlais, and his accent branded him as such.

The man glanced up from his bread and broth, nearly choking when he saw her properly in the low candlelight. “...You?” When Athadra’s brow arched dangerously, Riordan swallowed his mouthful. “Forgive me--I had not realised that you were--”

“The Commander of the Grey?”

He inclined his head. “Indeed. That armour is very distinctive. If any Warden but the true Commander tries to wear it, it grows unbearably hot.”

“Do you know why Duncan shunned it?” Athadra pulled up a chair, and took a bowl of the broth he wordlessly proffered.

The elder Warden sighed. “As I told you, we took our Joining together, more seasons ago than I care to think.” He chewed thoughtfully on a mouthful of bread for a moment. “I saw him wear that very suit when he received his commision as the Commander of the Grey in Ferelden, but in my few visits since that time, I never knew him to set himself above his fellows.”

“I only knew him for a few days,” said Athadra, with a sigh of her own. “He were...kind, but firm. Everyone knew he were in charge, and he didn’t have to remind them.”

“That was his way,” Riordan confirmed. “But he was a large man who’d earned a reputation over decades, and so he had the luxury of other men’s respect.”

The Warden swallowed her soaked bread, looking at a candleflame. “Whereas I’m a small woman who can’t demand enough respect to thread a needle.”

“That will come, in time,” Riordan assured her. “Commander,” he added deliberately. “Given the questions put to me during my stay in Teyrn Howe’s estate, I’d say you’ve already inspired quite a bit of fear in your enemies.” She laughed a bit scornfully, but the man pressed on. “For an elf who became the second-most senior Grey Warden the day after her Joining, and who’s spent the past year forging alliances to save her country, there are worse emotions upon which to build your reputation.”

“I suppose,” Athadra conceded, and she tossed half of her heel of bread to Garahel to placate his whining.

Riordan knocked back the rest of his broth and stood. “There is a secret cache in the back of a nondescript storehouse, where the Fereldan Wardens’ inventory is located.” He dug a key from a pouch at his hip, and passed it to her. “It is in an alleyway off the market, across from the tranquil mage shop called the Wonders of Thedas. I took the liberty of re-quipping myself, but there is still quite a selection.” His lips curved into a smirk. “It now belongs to you, Commander.”

Athadra took up the key; it was oddly heavy, for being so small. “Are you going to stick around?”

“I had thought to scout out Ostagar, to get a bead on the mood of the horde and to try and locate the remains of our fallen brothers and sisters,” the elder Warden admitted. “I’ve seen enough of the capitol to last until my Calling.”

Athadra stood as well, happy to realize that the man wasn’t more than a head taller than her. “I think I’d like you to stand beside me at the Landsmeet,” she said.

“Teyrn Loghain already brands me an agent of the empress,” Riordan pointed out, referring to the leader of Orlais. “He might try to use my presence to curry dissent amongst the lesser nobility.”

“Let him,” Athadra replied. “And if he convinces enough of them, we’ll cut off all of their heads and spike them on the rafters of Fort Drakon to serve as an example to their heirs.” Her lips twisted into a grimace. “We’re Grey Wardens, and this is a Blight. I don’t have the experience Duncan did, but _you_ do, so I need you.”

Something changed in the older man’s gaze, and his smirk faded into a slight frown. “Yes, Commander,” he breathed, inclining his head. “You will have my years--and my sword--when you face the highborn.”

“Good man,” Athadra allowed. “You can range outside the city to your heart’s content, as long as you’re back here in time,” she informed him. With a half-full belly and a parting nod of her own, the Warden parted company with her counterpart, seeking the refuge of her bedroll once more.


	58. Hard Bargains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Queen of Ferelden grants an audience to the Commander of the Grey, and the two women negotiate the terms of an accord between them. Afterward, Athadra takes Alistair and Zevran to seek the cache of supplies Riordan mentioned, and she convinces the would-be king to make good on a promise.

The Queen of Ferelden held court in a private room, which had been Lady Isolde’s bedchamber, attended only by her faithful elven handmaid. “I did not expect you so early, Commander,” Anora managed through a yawn. The sun had barely risen, and the sovereign and her maid were still in their dressing gowns.

“I were awake,” Athadra said, a bit evasively. She’d only managed a few hours’ sleep after her midnight meal with Senior Warden Riordan, and the past three hours had passed agonizingly slowly. “You wanted to see me?” She asked, only remembering to add “Your Majesty?” after a heartbeat.

“I...yes,” the queen replied. “Do sit down, if you please.” The Warden moved to comply, glad that she’d left Starfang in her room, since she’d have had to draw it or risk ruining Eamon’s fine devan otherwise. Anora sat in a chair opposite, a round booktable between them. “Do you know of Denerim’s Alienage?”

“I know Howe closed it off,” the Warden answered.

“ _Vaughan_ _Kendells_ closed it off,” the queen corrected, “while his father the arl was at Ostagar, when he dragged a woman from her _wedding_ to entertain himself and his friends.” For an instant, the woman’s carefully-composed voice shook with a hint of rage, and Athadra felt something akin to understanding in that tone. “The elves rioted when she was returned in a wheelbarrow,” Anora continued. “I hear he didn’t survive his own dungeons.”

The elf shook her head. “A great loss to the Landsmeet, I’m certain.”

“Enormous,” Anora concurred. “And now that both Howe and Kendells are dead, the arling of Denerim has devolved to the Crown,” she said.

“To you,” Athadra observed. “Or your father.”

“That depends on whether or not the city guard will recognize my seal when I order them to open it tomorrow,” said the queen. “I understand that you’ve fostered relations with the sergeant in charge of the market square. He may be of influence in this matter.” The woman’s tone had become inscrutable again, but the Warden misliked the vaguely-hungry tinge to her eyes.

“Why are you so keen to get it open, Your Majesty?” Athadra tried, and mostly succeeded, to keep her brow from cocking suspiciously.

“Because Howe sealed me away in his estate when I confronted him about keeping it closed for nearly nine months,” Anora replied. “There are rumours of plague, but no human has taken sick, to my knowledge.”

The Warden’s brow drew down. “There isn’t any quarantine that good,” she said. “Especially not of a whole city district.”

The queen nodded emphatically. “Guards cannot keep pigeons and rats from entering and leaving the gates, after all.” Anora leaned forward, planting an elbow on the table. Athadra had to admit that even in her gown, the woman looked formidable. “I believe my father and Howe were up to no good in the Alienage...and bringing their actions to light can only help us.”

“Us?” Athadra wondered aloud, before she could stop herself. “Or you?” The Warden knew that the queen was grateful for being rescued, but she was not at all certain how far that gratitude stretched.

If Anora was surprised by her guest’s shrewdness, she did not allow it to visibly stymie her. “I do not believe that my father’s interests are my own,” she said. “...not any longer, at least. He has allowed his hatred of Orlais to blind him to the very real threats this country faces.”

The Warden blinked, unsure of how to handle this unexpected turn. “So I can expect your _moderation_ at the Landsmeet to ripen into open support for my cause?”

“That depends,” the queen shot back, her face blank. “On whether you decide to enter the Alienage, as well as...other arrangements we might make.”

Athadra’s brows rose, understanding slowly beginning to dawn. “You want to stay in Denerim, after the Blight’s done,” she ventured.

The queen inclined her head. “That is my intent, yes,” she admitted, a cool edge to her voice. “I would appreciate your support to help ensure that I remain the Queen of Ferelden. I am still quite beloved of the people, despite my father’s missteps taken in my name.”

“That places me in a bit of a bind,” Athadra remarked evenly. “Good Arl Eamon is somewhat intent to see Prince Alistair set upon the throne.” She tried to keep the sneer which normally accompanied the word ‘prince’ to a minimum, just this once.

Anora’s eyes narrowed. “I am aware,” she allowed. “He believes the country will fall apart without Calenhad’s many-times-great grandson to keep it united.”

“Your Majesty disagrees?” Athadra asked, already knowing the answer.

“I do,” Anora replied. “If that were true, this nation would have already fallen to ruin. Who do you think has been ruling it for these five years, while Cailan was galavanting about, recreating scenes from his father’s picture-books?”

“I do not doubt your facility as a ruler,” Athadra assured her. “Even Eamon speaks no ill of your ability. And your cunning,” she added, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Yet appearances have a reality all their own, Your Majesty. Without the illusion of Maric’s succession, and without two strong teyrns to guide them, how many banns and arls will seek to re-establish their traditional rights and customs?” The Warden shook her head. “I have...a better idea,” she let on. “I see no reason why you and Arl Eamon cannot both be satisfied.”

The queen’s brow rose a hair’s breadth, before comprehension settled over her features. “You mean--”

“Marry Alistair, aye,” the Warden confirmed. “That’ll give the nobles a good excuse to remain in line, and let you keep running the country.”

The queen’s face flickered for an instant, but the inscrutable veneer reasserted itself in the space of a breath. “I’ll grant that Alistair seems biddable enough,” she conceded. “And I’ll ignore for the moment that he looks just like Cailan--my recently-dead husband, you’ll recall--but is this something Alistair even desires?”

Athadra shrugged. “The possibility were presented to him soon after we arrived in the city,” she informed the queen. “I amn’t certain if he’s entertained it since.” A half-second later, she amended, “Your Majesty.”

“I saw the look in his eyes when he told me to flee,” Anora said, her brows knitting with the memory. “He was ready to die for you, Commander,” she observed. “Are you two...”

“No,” the Warden broke in, barking a laugh. She considered failing to mention Leliana, but decided against it, in case the queen took it as a betrayal. “The bard and he do have an...understanding, however.” Athadra could tell the news displeased Anora, but the sovereign did not reject the notion out of hand. “For what it’s worth, she’s sworn to keep him faithful...and given what I know of the man, that will not be a difficult task.”

Anora took a few moments to gather a reply. “I suppose one might do worse,” she admitted, with a hint of a sigh. “And if I refuse...?”

Athadra’s brief bout of mirth evaporated. “The very best case,” she said with deliberate gravity, “is that we win the vote with your silent dissent, and you return to Gwaren as the teyrna.” Her crimson eyes held the queen’s gaze steadily. “If you openly defy us and we still win, Alistair may confine you to a tower, or some other soft-headed nonsense.”

Anora swallowed slowly. “And were my father to prevail?”

“Then,” the Warden pronounced, “you would both die. Quickly.” Her gaze flickered to Erlina, who’d cried out at the not-so-veiled threat, but the elven servant made no further protest.

The queen’s face seemed etched of stone, once more. “I understand,” she allowed. “I’ll need some time to consider it.”

Athadra nodded, and regained her feet. “You should think hard about it, Your Majesty. Alistair is a good man... _too_ good, sometimes. If you show him an inch of kindness, he’ll give you a league of loyalty in return.” She gave the sovereign a curt bow, and turned to go, though she paused at the door. “Seek him out,” the Warden counseled. “Get a sense of his mind, and then make your decision.”

Anora had stood during Athadra’s retreat. “I’ll do that,” she vowed. “Commander,” she added, with a parting nod.

“Majesty,” Athadra replied, nodding in her turn before she slipped back through the door. She collected her greatblade and her mabari before heading to the kitchens once again. This time, the Warden found Alistair there, along with Zevran and a few early-risen dwarves from Behlen’s expeditionary force. The stout folk seemed ill-disposed to conversation, however, possibly still unused to the surface world--under normal circumstances, a dwarf setting foot above-ground meant that dwarf was a _surfacer_ , worse than casteless. Behlen’s soldiers stood exempt from this fate by their king’s decree, but they were still uneasy, nonetheless.

“Walk with me,” Athadra called to her companions, after pilfering a loaf of brown bread. Alistair looked blearily up from his gruel for a moment, but he nodded and swallowed a final mouthful before joining her as she made for the estate’s bailey. The Antivan brought his wooden bowl along when he followed.

“Where are we going?” Asked the would-be prince, stifling a yawn, after a few minutes of walking.

The Warden led them out into the grey-tinged morning. “Spoke to Riordan last night,” she said, almost evasively. “He mentioned a secret storeroom of Warden equipment that Loghain and Howe didn’t manage to find.”

“Wonder of wonders,” Alistair mused. “Speak of the magus,” he added, when he saw the fancy lettering of the shop across from the concealing storeroom. And then he winced at the hard elbow Athadra gave him for the insult.

Zevran scoffed. “I would have thought ‘The Wonders of Thedas’ would have been a whorehouse,” he observed. “Pity.”

From the smokey window, it appeared to house the wares of Tranquil mages, hawking them on behalf of the Circle. “I wish it were,” Athadra barked. “Then it might be useful.” Shaking her head, the Warden turned to a nondescript door, and found it unlocked. “Come on.” She led them through the nearly-empty warehouse, but she frowned when she didn’t see anything that looked like a door.

“If I may?” Prompted Zevran, when she growled in consternation. At her nod, the assassin stalked through the rows of shelves, and in a few minutes he let out a cackle of triumph. “I truly am a genius,” he boasted as the others caught up. “I believe if you place your key here,” Zevran instructed, pointing at a small gap between a bookshelf and the wall, “you will find some satisfaction.”

Athadra bit back a remark about how throttling the elf would certainly feel satisfying as well, given his smug expression; instead, she slipped the key into the notch, and worked it until she heard a clear click. At once, the bookshelf pressed out from the wall, and it seemed to weigh nothing as the Warden pushed it sideways. Behind it lay another door, which the key also got them through.

“I can’t believe I’ve never seen this,” Alistair marveled, once they’d entered the secret chamber. It was not large, but it held many suits of armour and racks of weapons in all sizes, as well as maps and a few other pieces of equipment. “Hey--is that...Duncan’s shield?”

Athadra cocked her head at the rounded kite-style shield, painted in white, with the blue griffon device typical of the Grey Wardens proudly in the centre. “It looks like it hasn’t seen a practice yard,” she commented.

“Yes, well,” Alistair began, “you saw that Duncan preferred a blade in each hand.” The taller Warden shrugged. “But he did wear this occasionally, when he wanted to make an impression on civilians.” He sounded a bit defensive, and must have realized it, for a blush crept over his cheeks.

“Take it, then,” Athadra offered. “And put it to some good use.” She folded up an old map of the Anderfels and stuffed it into her pack to pore over later, while Alistair traded his Redcliffe kite shield for Duncan’s.

“I...” Alistair breathed, though he hesitated, prompting Athadra’s brow to raise. “Thank you,” he finished.

The Warden nodded. “He...would’ve wanted you to have it,” she ventured, remembering the simple courtesy from her youth; a decade imprisoned had done nothing for her manners, but she was glad to see the comment steady her companion. “Keep your brother’s armour, though,” she cautioned him. “At least until after the Landsmeet.”

“Will-do,” Alistair conceded, just a tad begrudgingly. “Is there anything else we need?”

Athadra shrugged and went scrounging. She discovered a pair of longswords, either of which might have taken both of her hands to properly wield before her winter with the Sten. Like her daggers, she could tell from how her blood whispered that the blades had been runed against darkspawn. Close by, the Warden discovered a belt with an empty holster made to fit two daggers that would cross at the small of the wearer’s back. On little more than a whim, Athadra fixed both swords to the new belt and found that her daggers fit snugly in the fresh sheaths. Once she’d strapped the leather through the securing loops of her armour, the elf remembered Isabela’s hidden shankers. After a few moments of searching, she found a set of six smaller blades, and Athadra shimmied three sheaths each into her boots.

Alistair whistled when he saw her. “You sure you don’t want to take a few hatchets as well? Maybe a mace? ...or possibly try to wear a trebuchet?”

Zevran snickered. “I think it’s possible even for a Grey Warden to overdress, no?” The assassin had replaced one of his daggers with a shortsword, and the other with a similar Warden-runed dagger. Garahel barked argumentatively at the two men, and gave a few approving pants in his mistress’s direction.

Athadra shifted, testing the weight of her new acquisitions, and found it bearable. “When I want your opinions,” she shot back, “I’ll cut your tongues out and have them tell me.” Alistair bit off a laugh, but when his lips parted, Athadra pressed on. “We done here?”

The taller Warden shrugged. “I suppose. We should bring Leliana and Oghren here, to see if they want anything else. The Sten, too, I guess.”

“We will,” Athadra replied. “But let’s clear out, for now. Then you can go talk to Anora.”

“Okay,” Alistair said. Then, after a moment, “...wait. What?”

Athadra rolled her eyes, already moving to leave the room. “I talked with her earlier,” she confessed, locking the door and clicking the bookshelf back into place once Garahel and Zevran had followed them out. “She’s...considering it.”

“Considering what?” Alistair looked alarmed, as though he couldn’t imagine what the Commander of the Grey and the Queen of Ferelden could possibly have to discuss.

“Keeping her crown,” Athadra pointed out. “And having you visit her bed from time to time, to give her a big belly.”

“Oh,” Alistair sighed. “ _That_.” His brows knitted, anxiety obvious. “I guess I hadn’t really thought about it. I know I said I would, but...”

The Warden shrugged, leading them back out into the mid-morning air of the alleyway and the market beyond. “Think it over now, and talk to the woman,” she demanded. “If she doesn’t agree to marry you, I _will_ kill her, along with her father. It’s up to you to decide whether or not she deserves that.” Her pronouncement strangled any protests the taller Warden might have given, and they returned to the arl’s estate in strained silence.


	59. The Hero And The Champion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It has come to this, at last: a one-on-one confrontation between the Commander of the Grey and the Teyrn of Gwaren. The first to yield will have lost the Landsmeet's confidence, and so Athadra cannot afford to surrender. Yet despite her recently-acquired skill, can the Warden hope to overmatch the years of fighting experience which have earned Loghain Mac Tir the highest honours of his kingdom?

Sweat cut rivulets through the sheets of blood on Athadra’s face, shed from a cut to her right eyebrow that Loghain’s shield had opened. For a man nearing fifty years, the Hero of River Dane was still every bit as dangerous as he had been when King Maric was still little-more than a brigand, and the Warden was getting desperate. The nobility of Ferelden stood in a loose circle around them, standing witness to the duel which Athadra had proposed, once Loghain had lost the Landsmeet’s confidence.

Queen Anora had been right to suspect foul play in the Alienage; within, many indeed lay sick unto dying, but much of that could be explained by the starvation rations Howe had kept the elves to. Athadra and her cohorts had discovered Tevinter slavers weeding out the healthiest of the district’s inhabitants. That piece of news alone had been enough to sway many votes against the teyrn, and Athadra’s report of her summary execution of the foreign magister, Caladrius, who’d come to impose servitude on Fereldans, brought her cause much appreciation. When the queen herself denounced her own father in favour of the Grey Wardens, the final vote shifted so dramatically that Loghain tried to dissolve the meeting with sheer force of will.

The Warden had challenged him to trial by combat, thinking his best years must surely stand behind him. Now, as the two warily circled about the clearing, she was coming to regret her foolishness. Ser Cauthrien should have taught her a lesson; the knight lay cooling in the Landsmeet’s antechamber, having tried to halt Athadra’s interruption of the nobles’ proceedings. She’d fought the Warden nearly to a standstill yet again, but in the end, Starfang had made the difference.  Yet as Athadra now gripped the greatblade’s hilt, she realized that Teyrn Loghain had _trained_ Cauthrien, and she wondered how she could have been so flippant. The Warden’s only consolation was that Loghain’s shield heaved with the force of his own breaths and his armour was blessed with blood of his own, but she felt her stomach tighten when he brought his sword to bear once again.

“Do you yield, Warden?” Loghain’s voice shook slightly, though his eyes were clear. He’d called her much worse than that about half an hour before, which Athadra took as progress, of a sort.

She felt her mana guttering in her muscles like a nearly-spent candle, having been exhausted by the overuse of her Arcane Warrior talents. Those skills had kept her from buckling beneath the older man’s ferocious opening blows, but after twenty minutes toe-to-toe, both fighters were dipping into their last reserves. The smell of her foe’s blood caused Athadra own to pull at her veins, urging her to draw upon the resource, but she knew the outcome of practicing the forbidden art in view of so many witnesses, and so managed to resist the temptation. “Do you, teyrn?”

The Hero of River Dane actually managed to smile, and the Warden could see the tension building in the tendons in his neck just a heartbeat before he cried out, “For Maric and the Maker!” And then he came for her, his one-handed sword flashing and his shield seemingly in three places at once. It was all Athadra could do to keep her head upon her shoulders, and she found herself taking a few of Loghain’s blows upon her plate, as Starfang became heavier and heavier. A massive downstroke from the man saw Athadra take to one knee with the recoil of her parry, and a gasp went up behind her, as Loghain looked to finish the job. The teryn aimed his next blow at her very fingers; it was only at the last moment that Athadra released Starfang and rolled beneath Loghain’s arm.

The Warden twisted as she tumbled, gripping the hilts of her newly-claimed longswords and drawing them just in the nick of time--the elf caught Loghain’s next strike on her crossed blades, a few centimetres from her forehead and a mere heartbeat after her weapons had cleared their scabbards. Rather than draw back, Loghain cried out yet again and pressed forward, trying to close the distance between his steel and her flesh. “Yield!” He demanded hoarsely, blinking the sweat from his eyes.

Athadra’s arms shook with the effort of holding off the larger man, fire licking across the nerves of her shoulders and down her back. From her new position, she spied the Sten glowering at her from the corner of her blood-free eye, and the Warden recalled all of the work he’d put her through. The days spent under those heavy boughs had seemed just as impossible as her current predicament, if not moreso...and the pain of the Sten’s whip still stood unequalled in her memory. “Sod off, shem,” Athadra shot back, the agonies of her past easing the burden of her present.

Memories of her confinement in Fort Drakon, and of her discoveries in the Alienage, also echoed in the back of the elf’s mind. While Loghain disclaimed responsibility for Howe’s injustices, he’d still overseen and profited from them; if Athadra failed this day, then all of the bodies in Fort Drakon and all of the elves shipped off to Tevinter had been lost for good and all, and for nothing. And so it was that Athadra turned her kneel into a grunting crouch, reclaiming her feet despite all of Loghain’s weight bearing down upon her crossed swords. The Warden was beyond magic now, her strength fueled by rage and pain, with the first line of the Grey Wardens’ motto ringing in her ears: _In War, Victory_.

Thus Athadra did not hear the crowd’s next gasp, nor Loghain’s, as she broke their stalemate by pulling her swords apart and re-launching an attack of her own. The Warden ignored her opponent’s shield, her feet dancing around to Loghain’s right while she struck at his sword-arm and his flank. He was on the backfoot once more, his face a grimace of shock and pain. Fresh blood ran down the teyrn’s right leg from his hip, and his parries came less and less forcefully, while Athadra’s assault seemed only to increase in ferocity. She backed the man up to the great stone stairway which led to Ferelden’s throne, but he must have misjudged a step, for Loghain stumbled. Seizing the opportunity, Athadra threw her shoulder into his shield just as she slashed at his right wrist. Teyrn Loghain tipped backward with a clattering crash, his sword landing just out of his reach.

The Champion of Redcliffe planted a heavy boot upon his smooth chestpiece, torn from an Orlesian chevalier over thirty years before. “Say it,” she growled, levelling one swordpoint at the knot of cartilage in his throat and the other at his greying temple. The man had the audacity to look incredulous for the space of a breath, but then he seemed to deflate.

“I...yield,” Loghain hissed. “You have won, Warden.”

Applause and cheering erupted around them as Athadra nodded and stepped off of her fallen foe. She still gripped her weapons, though her fingers tingled with exhaustion and still rang with the echoes of the battle. Alistair came to stand beside her, his face a mask of disgust as he regarded Loghain. “Finish it,” he spat, casting a harsh glance at Athadra. “Or I will.”

Riordan’s gloved hand fell heavily onto Alistair’s other shoulder. As good as his word, the Senior Warden had returned to stand with his fellows. “There is another option,” he cautioned. “Teyrn Loghain is a cunning strategist, as he showed at Ostagar...and a warrior of renown, as demonstrated before our very eyes.” Athadra saw Alistair’s eyes narrow, but Riordan pressed on. “His like should be welcomed into our ranks, for the battle to come.”

“What?!” The would-be prince seemed to swell, but the Queen of Ferelden cut him off.

“The Joining ritual is often fatal, is it not?” The woman’s eyes shone with unshed tears, as she looked from her father to the man she’d accepted as her future husband. “Teyrn Loghain has considerable skill,” she pressed, using her father’s title in front of all of the lesser nobles.

“No!” Alistair looked to draw his own sword from over his shoulder, but Riordan moved to intercept his wrist.

“I’m sorry, brother,” the older man said. “But that is the Commander’s decision to make.”

The uncrowned king looked from right to left, fixing Athadra with a half-crazed, half-desperate stare. “You can’t seriously be considering this, can you?”

Loghain himself coughed, having risen to a kneel. “Have I no say?”

“No!” Athadra and Alistair yelled, simultaneously. That seemed to melt a bit of the tension that Riordan’s offer had so swiftly generated, and Athadra continued, turning to face the teyrn. “Last year, Duncan saved me from a fate worse than death,” she began, throwing up a hand to silence any interruption. “Yet he wouldn’t’ve done it, if he hadn’t thought I could be of some use to him.”

“You can’t--” Alistair cut in, but Athadra overrode him.

“I ain’t finished,” she spat. “I only knew him a few days,” she went on, “before you took him from me. Before you took them all from me and Alistair.” The Warden managed a smirk, driven by memories of her single meal with Tarimel and Gregor. Part of her still ached from the loss. “So he ain’t here to tell us what he’d have done. You’ve left it up to me,” she pointed out. “And I can’t forgive you for that.”

“You can’t kill him!” Anora’s cheeks were wet, now, and she looked like she might try and shield her father with her own body. The woman glared at Alistair. “If you want me to agree, you have to spare him.”

A hush settled over the nearby nobility; nothing had been announced of Alistair’s betrothal to the queen, and she seemed to think that threatening the prospect could gain her some leverage. Athadra levelled one of her swords at the woman. “He can’t kill the teyrn,” she agreed. “But I can. Would you care to join him? Your Majesty?”

The threat sent a shiver of alarm through the crowd, who had only voted to accept Alistair as their true sovereign less than an hour beforehand. When the queen tried to renew her protests, Loghain fought his way to his feet and gripped her by the shoulders. “Hush, Anora,” he whispered, wiping a tear from his daughter’s face. “You may be the ruler of this nation, but you are still my daughter...always that little six-year-old girl, with skint knees and pigtails.” He planted a kiss upon her forehead, and pushed her back, urging her up the steps.

Then the man turned to face the Warden, his expression coldly determined. “When first we met, I could never have imagined getting bested by you in single combat,” he admitted, exhaustion still lacing his voice. “Yet there is a strength in you I’ve not seen since Maric disappeared. I will leave my daughter, and Ferelden, in your care.” With a grunt, the older man sunk down to one knee, his eyes never wavering from Athadra’s. “Make it quick, damn you.”

The Warden inclined her head, as impressed with his stoicism as she’d been with Lady Isolde’s, so many months before. “Are you the praying sort?”

Loghain scoffed. “We both know I’m beyond any help from the Maker,” he admitted. “Get on with it.”

Moving as quickly as her leaden limbs allowed, Athadra crossed her blades once more, resting them upon the teyrn’s pauldrons. With a hitch in her breath, the Warden yanked her arms apart, and tried not to show the tremble that crawled over her spine at the fountain of blood which rose to her steel’s summons. Yet Athadra could not turn away from her work, even as Loghain’s nerveless body tipped sideways; her crimson gaze did not budge from his face, until the last light had drained from the teyrn’s eyes. It was only then that the Warden threw down her swords and half-collapsed, with Alistair’s help, onto the stone steps, her breath still coming in long gasps.

The not-so-future king moved to Anora, but Athadra was not party to their whispered negotiations; the Sten had broken the spectators’ circle, and he silently pushed the elf’s waterskin into her trembling hands. She drew from it greedily, just as Anora moved forward to speak.

“Good people of Ferelden,” the woman began, her voice still shaking from having witnessed her own father’s execution. “By your ancient rights, you have acclaimed acclaimed yourselves a new king.” She swallowed, glancing in Athadra’s direction for a brief moment, before going on. “May I present to you my future husband, King Alistair Theirin, First of His Name.” The whispers which had sprung up at the mention of marriage died off quickly when Anora swept to one side, leaving the view clear to Alistair, standing proudly in gilded armour beside his newly-won throne.

“I...” he began, somewhat lamely, followed by a good “er...” Athadra breathed a sigh and stood, turning to face the man, and the sight of her bloodied face must have steeled his nerves. “Thank you, my queen,” he managed, nodding at Anora. Then, a bit more steadily, “Today we have decided to settle our arguments in the proper way, laid down by King Calenhad centuries ago, and affirmed by my father and brother before me.” Alistair’s clear, blue eyes swept over the gathered throng. “Today, we have chosen to put aside our squabbles with one another, and unite to face the dreaded darkspawn, who even now mass in the South to overwhelm us.” As he spoke, now, the king slowly descended the steps to stand beside his fellow Wardens.

“I promise you,” Alistair called, “that I shall not remain idle in the capitol whilst this threat grows, as my immediate predecessor has done.” Very deliberately, he drew King Maric’s gold-plated sword, showering his audience with reflected light. “Warden-Commander Athadra will command my armies, and I shall continue to fight by her side, until the Archdemon is dead and our nation is secure.” The king lifted his blade high in the air. “Join us,” he urged, “and together, we can end this Blight!”

The hall sounded with drawing steel, and a cry rose. “For Ferelden!” The refrain sounded, over and over, growing in power until the pigeons in the rafters took flight in panic. That even got Shale to join in, her stone feet thundering against the floor.

Later, as the Chantry’s bells kept ringing the Maker’s endorsement and criers kept the news of the Landsmeet’s decision alive in the streets of Denerim, Athadra felt oddly hollow. Friga was curt with her, a sign that the Avvar was quite upset--which meant that Athadra had been even more reckless than she’d realized. Several broken ribs, bruised joints, and a concussion had been the price of her victories over Loghain and Ser Cauthrien, and even after Friga had done her best, Athadra still ached long into the night. She’d wanted to recruit Cauthrien, in truth; even Riordan’s attempted intercession with Loghain had tempted her. The knight had died rather than betray her teyrn, and Alistair had forced her hand after the duel. As she settled into a fitful sleep, the Warden hoped that the king’s confidence would not prove misplaced.


	60. The Holy Grail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Denerim's adventures finally behind them, the Wardens can take the final preparations for battle. Athadra parts company with Eamon's guards at the city's gates, ostensibly to seek out Knight-Commander Greagoir and scold him into her terms for the mages...yet she has an ulterior motive besides, and her band makes a small detour to Soldier's Peak on their way to Kinloch Hold.

Luckily for Athadra, but rather unluckily for a caravan of travelers along the North Road, the Blight’s reach had spread fingers across the whole of the bannorn, even into Highever. By the time the Warden’s party reached the burning wagons, nothing stirred but a couple of hurlocks, stripping flesh from the carcass of an ox. Athadra and Alistair took the fiends by surprise, and before they could do more than bellow indignantly, the pair of tainted creatures were manacled back-to-back and tied down with yards of chain. The Wardens dumped their quarry unceremoniously into the wagon they’d brought from Denerim, from whence they’d also taken the iron used to bind the monsters. Alistair made little complaint, though he had obvious qualms about delivering living darkspawn to Avernus’ curious hands.

Yet that was the plan Athadra had formed, amidst the flurry of activity the Landsmeet’s conclusion had thrown the capitol into. As the formal commander of Ferelden’s armies by King Alistair’s proclamation, the Warden had to meet with the important men and women of the country, some of whom had been trying to kill her for nearly a year. Every bann and arl would have to contribute soldiers to augment the crown’s standing forces, which numbered to less than ten thousand, concentrated along the border crossings with Orlais and the country’s Northern ports. These fighters were all being summoned to Redcliffe, and envoys had been sent to Celene in order to expedite the Orlesian Wardens’ crossing. Along with Eamon, Alistair, and Riordan, Athadra had formulated a simple plan to strike into the Korcari Wilds with all of the force the nation could muster, in order to cut into the heart of the horde and see the Archdemon brought to heel. The Orlesian Warden had departed not long after, urged on by his conscience to discover the fate of his friends.

Through two days of cajoling, plotting, organizing, and threatening, Athadra did not forget her promise to Avernus. She’d been too distracted by her own training and then Morrigan’s absence to attempt to spirit darkspawn to the old magus until now, but the Warden seized the opportunity to redress her earlier failure. Giving Eamon the reasonable excuse that she and her people would personally see the mages of the Circle Tower summoned to Redcliffe, Athadra had commandeered the wagon and a draught horse just before she quit the city. Now that her subterfuge had borne fruit, the Warden covered the wagon in a large oilcloth, to keep passersby from easily learning of her efforts, and to keep the beasts from spooking the horse. It took just a couple of days more on the Imperial Highway to see the party close in on Soldier’s Peak.

When Athadra led her companions through the access tunnel and up to the fortress’s portcullis, they saw that every scrap of iron had been cleaned from the path. Once in the bailey, the Wardens knew why; Mikhael had set up a forge in the yard, which even now smouldered. “Hale,” the smith called, when he caught sight of the interlopers. “Levi is off trading, but his wife and daughter are within.”

“Great,” Alistair sighed, throwing Athadra a skeptical look.

The Warden ignored it. “Have they bothered Avernus?”

“Who?” Mikhael raised a brow at her.

“Old man, what lives in the Northern tower,” the elf explained.

The blacksmith grimaced. “Oh, _him_.” Mikhael shook his head. “Levi brings him live animals from time to time, up the hill, but we never see him.”

“Good,” Athadra said, relief palpable in her voice. “Go see to Levi’s family, and make sure nobody comes out into the courtyard or follows us into the tower.”

The man set down his hammer, regarding the eclectic band and their wagon evenly. After a long moment he nodded, and crossed the yard without saying another word. The Warden saw that the door into the keep’s entrance hall had been replaced, at least, for Mikhael shut it fast behind him. Once she was certain that none would come to investigate, Athadra uncovered the half-starved darkspawn and loosened the chains about their legs. Together with Alistair, she wrestled the beasts up the hill to the mage’s tower, while everyone else waited by the wagon. There, as the elf had suspected, they discovered a portal that had been cleared of debris.

Avernus waited for them on the first landing of stairs beyond the doorway. He looked unchanged from months before, except his eyes; they glowed with a mischievous sparkle. “I was wondering when you would return to me,” he said quite casually. “Though I see you’ve been busy in your absence, Commander.” The old man gave a deferential bow; he must have recognized Athadra’s armour as a more modern incarnation of Sophia’s.

“And we’ve brought gifts,” Alistair pointed out, giving the hurlocks a shove and catching them when they threatened to fall. “Sorry we’re late for First Day.”

Avernus’ goblin grin was a wonder to behold, as though he’d just been presented with a newborn great-grandson. “Marvellous,” he exulted, and then he did something that made even Athadra’s blood run a bit cool; as casually as donning a glove, the old mage used the spike in his stave to slice open his palm, and he sent a haze of his own blood into the captive darkspawn. Immediately, they stopped struggling, both turning their heads to fixate upon him. “You may release them,” Avernus allowed. “They are now under my control.”

Athadra saw several expressions pass across Alistair’s face, but in the end, a sort of calculated indifference won out. Without a word, he began unlatching the beasts’ manacles, and the elf set to helping him. After a few moments, the iron chains lay in a heap about the hurlocks’ feet, yet the monsters did not move a muscle. The Warden could guess what Alistair was thinking, that this was the logical conclusion of blood magic, and that it was impossible to be just a little bit heretical. When Avernus turned to ascend the stairs up to his workshop, the hurlocks fell into line behind him; almost on a whim, Athadra moved to follow.

“Where are you going?” Alistair’s cool facade began to twist.

Athadra paused midway up the first flight of rickety stairs. “Maleficar business,” she explained. “I want to know how he’s kept off his Calling for the last hundred and sixty years.”

“Try not to be too long,” Alistair pleaded. “We don’t want the templars asking too many questions.”

“Aye, Your Majesty,” Athadra conceded with a swift bow. She didn’t wait to see whatever face the king would pull, instead hurrying up the stairs after the old blood mage. By the time she arrived in Avernus’ workshop, he’d secured his gifts in a pair of hanging cages which still held the bones of the long-dead Wardens he’d experimented on in years past. The darkspawn were no longer docile, however; they grunted and thrashed at the metal in a futile effort to escape.

Avernus himself turned from his elevated tabletop. “It was quite ingenious, really,” he opened, without preamble. “For years after, I wondered why no one had thought to try it before...”

The Warden arched a brow. “Mayhaps someone did, but it didn’t turn out so well.”

The old man grinned. “Perhaps,” he allowed. “If you’re not ready to slay me for exercising a bit of mind control, I suppose the truth in this matter will not end me.”

“I promise,” Athadra vowed. “I don’t blame you for what you did,” she assured him, nodding to some of the unoccupied cages along the walls. “I might’ve done the same, if I had your skill. But,” the Warden cautioned, “now any Warden blood you take will come to you willingly. Understand?”

“Commander,” Avernus replied, inclining his head into a deep bow. When he rose, he gestured for the elf to climb up the short flight of stairs to his worktable, and then turned to consult his notes. “The taint is common to Wardens and darkspawn, but it is not identical within them,” he explained, when Athadra had joined him. “The beasts are utterly corrupted from birth, whereas we succumb but gradually to it, over years.”

“So I’ve been told,” Athadra confirmed. “Except you, it appears.”

“Indeed,” Avernus replied, flashing her that goblin’s grin again. “As well as you,” he pointed out. “Since you drank the blood I left in the keepward entrance.”

The elf swallowed. “And how do you know it worked on me?”

“Because you still draw breath,” Avernus answered, shrugging. “The secret is that, while the taint is slowly infiltrating our bodies, our own blood fights against it. This is normally a losing struggle, as you know,” the old man said. “Yet you and I have taken a second Joining, as it were...and not with darkspawn blood, but with Wardens’ _blood_ ,” he admitted, “altered alchemically to increase the power of the taint within it, while also greatly boosting our bodies’ resistance to its ravaging effects.”

The Warden blinked, steadying herself against the table with a hand. “You’re sure of this?”

Avernus nodded. “Almost certain,” he boasted. “You imbibed the same concoction I have, though yours was far more potent,” the old alchemist informed her. “I’d left it down there years ago, in case my efforts to call to Sophia’s grandson did not succeed,” he explained. “If the taint were not balanced with its antigen, you would have either died that night, or your own Calling would have taken you not long after.”

“That’s...good to know,” Athadra allowed, after a moment’s reflection. She’d known that drinking the elixir had entailed a risk, but she was glad that she hadn’t known just how risky it had been, then. “How long do you think a Warden needs to be tainted before they can take this ‘second Joining’?”

Avernus’ eyes twinkled. “Now _there’s_ a question I’d have expected right out of Sophia’s mouth,” he intoned, a ghost of a chuckle echoing in his words. “The Joining itself is crude, and is survived by roughly half of those who partake in it. Perhaps more, if those recruited are stout indeed.” He paused to consider, shuffling across some of his loose parchment. “I’ve seen nothing to indicate that the two procedures could not occur simultaneously,” Avernus announced. “With a few modifications to the Joining itself, the Wardens’ blood could be added to give any recruits a near-certain chance for success.”

“And a life without the Calling?”

The alchemist nodded. “At least enough of a resistance to last them until their natural deaths...though one could argue that was always the case. Fighting darkspawn has never provided much in the way of old-age security, after all.”

“Present company excepted,” Athadra breathed, her lips quirking up into a smirk. “You have done well here, Avernus,” the Warden commented, her gaze sweeping out across the chamber. “I intend to put your work to use. How much longer do you have to live?”

“Indefinitely, I hope,” Avernus answered. “I believe I am close to a breakthrough that will allow me to regain a bit of my youth,” he explained, at Athadra’s questioning glance. “Your generous gift should aid in that work tremendously, Commander. You have my thanks.”

“About that,” the Warden said, squaring off with the old man. “If I ever catch you manipulating someone else’s thoughts, I don’t care how useful you’ve been.”

The alchemist’s expression flickered for an instant, but after a heartbeat he inclined his head. “I understand,” he affirmed. “It is not so easy to accomplish as the Chantry makes it seem, however,” Avernus went on. “Surely you remember the battle below, when I used your blood in aid of mending the Veil?” At Athadra’s nod, the man risked a smile again. “You felt your blood rebelling against the summons of another, did you not?”

“Aye,” Athadra confirmed, suppressing a shudder at the memory. “It were... _wrong_ , in my veins.”

“Indeed,” Avernus concurred. “And that was with no resistance on your part. That is why simply boiling the blood is so easy,” he went on. “Even in mundanes, the life force naturally rebels against foreign intervention, and so it takes a truly practiced blood mage to tease another’s blood to one’s own will.”

Athadra regarded the alchemist’s notes. “Looks like you’ve had a lot of practice, Avernus. Your earlier demonstration didn’t exactly make you seem an amateur.”

Avernus licked his lips, looking contemplatively upon his new research subjects, whose failure to escape had not seemed to daunt their thirst for freedom. “The corruption rules the darkspawn, bending their thoughts toward a single purpose,” he mused. “That, and our connection with them through the taint we share, makes it easier to bend their minds to our will.” He regarded his Commander evenly. “In the Tevinter of old, such control was only fashioned from already-pliant slaves, or with the help of powerful demons.”

“And you know better than me how unreliable they can be,” Athadra observed, and then nodded. “Very well. Just...don’t let Alistair catch you doing it to the darkspawn again,” she cautioned. “I’ve mind enough to cause friction between templars and Wardens, in my time. I don’t want to antagonize the crown, as well,” she stated frankly. “Did you still need some proper Warden blood to work with, besides your own?”

It was impossible to miss the flash of hunger which crossed Avernus’ craggy features. “Is that an offer, Commander?”

“It is,” the Warden acknowledged. “Have you an unused flask?” She loosened one of her gauntlets as the alchemist fetched a wide-mouthed jug, and once he’d uncorked it, Athadra snatched one of the shankers from a boot and slashed deeply into her naked wrist. After measuring a generous dose into the container, Athadra staunched the flow of her lifeblood and sealed the wound--from necessity, she’d become more adept at preventing any scarring of her self-inflicted wounds.

“That should suffice, Commander,” Avernus informed her. “You have my thanks.”

“I would rather have results,” the elf pointed out, but she bowed slightly, all the same. “Keep yourself safe, here. I’ll likely not see you again until after the Archdemon’s slain...if we’re lucky.”

The alchemist looked at her soberly. “I have every confidence that you can bring her down,” he allowed. “Farewell, Commander.”

Athadra clapped her fist over the gilded griffon emblazoned on her chest-piece, before turning to stalk through the high chamber. The hurlocks hissed at her as she passed, but she eyed one of them dangerously, her sapped veins urging her to replenish her life from the captured creature. Some instinct must have caused the beast to flinch away, breaking the spell, and the Warden continued down the tower to rejoin Alistair, below.

The King of Ferelden was leaning jauntily against the exterior doorway. “Finished with the coven already?”

The Warden rolled her eyes. “I got what I were after,” she allowed, and inclined her head to the hills beyond the doorframe. “Let’s get out of here--if we’re quick, we can make Kinloch Hold in two or three days.”

Alistair nodded, and together, the Wardens set off to collect their fellows and range back to the Highway.


	61. Prestidigitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wardens swing by Kinloch Hold to secure the detachment of mages which Athadra earned in saving the Circle Tower, but their return to Redcliffe isn't quite as triumphant as they might be used to. The village stands under siege from hundreds of darkspawn, yet even after fending them off, the Wardens know that they must rush headlong to Denerim in order to avert disaster. Before they set off, however, Riordan has some important information about the Archdemon to impart.

The Knight-Commander slammed his armoured fist onto the table, rattling an inkpot dangerously. “Absolutely not!” His grimace showed nearly all of his yellowed teeth. “As I’ve told Arl Eamon’s messenger, and his agent yesterday,” Greagoir continued, speaking of Ser Perth. The knight had taken ship with a complement of soldiers, landing upon the Circle Tower a dozen hours before Athadra had arrived.

“I suppose the arl weren’t plain enough, then,” growled Athadra, unshaken by the older templar’s aggression. Her arms were crossed at her chest, fingers flexing, itching to draw the swords at her hips. “Twenty mages, and no templars. It ain’t a request, Greagoir.”

The Knight-Commander’s mouth opened incredulously, but before he could speak, Alistair stepped forward. “You must know that, as King of Ferelden, I support the Commander in this,” he asserted. Athadra tried not to let her surprise register too visibly.

“Your Majesty,” Greagoir began, grudgingly. “ _You_ must know that it is the Chantry which authorizes my commission. With respect, where I send my templars is my business.”

“Aye,” Athadra conceded. “But when these mages get on the boat, they’ll become a detachment of King Alistair’s army. That makes what happens to them my business,” she countered.

“I’ll not have mages running rampant around the country,” the Knight-Commander insisted. “I have a duty to protect the citizens of Ferelden from maleficarum, and to protect mages from the mob.”

The Warden’s eyes narrowed dangerously, and her arms rested a few centimetres lower on her abdomen. “Don’t preach to me about how you tin-tops protect us,” she hissed. “Since you’re as thick as a dwarven anvil, I’ll spell it out for you. I’ve a duty as well, to see the Archdemon put out of the sky.” Rather than give over to temptation and draw any of her blades, Athadra leaned forward, resting her hands on the table. “The mages cannot fight darkspawn in front of them, if they’re worried about templars’ swords at their backs.”

“And if one of them gives into fear in the face of the monsters, and becomes an abomination?” Greagoir leaned forward in his turn, coming nearly face-to-face with the Warden.

“That ain’t likely to happen unless things go bad,” Athadra retorted. “And in that case, a few horrors from the Fade will be the least of our worries. You know that.” The elf shook her head. “Unless you’re giving your men over to my command as part of the army, they stay here,” she pronounced. “Because if they’re policing mages, they _aren’t_ fighting darkspawn...and that means they’re aiding the bastards.” Her eyes flashed, even as Greagoir’s fists clenched. “And we all know what Grey Wardens are sworn to do to anyone or anything that keeps us from fighting the darkspawn and ending the Blight.”

The colour slowly drained from the Knight-Commander’s face. “...you’re serious,” he breathed.

“We could save time and come to blows now, if you preferred,” Athadra offered, her lips twitching into a smirk. “I promise that you would not like the result.” Behind and around her stood the rest of her party, including the King of Ferelden, backed by a dozen warriors from Redcliffe.

Greagoir let out a slow breath, pinching the bridge of his nose; his lips moved silently, counting out. When his gaze returned to the Warden, she drank in the hate his eyes gave off. “Very well,” he conceded. “Take them...but know that I’ve already given the order to relocate all of the phylacteries, for the duration of the Blight. Any mages who fail to return will be branded apostates, and hunted down,” the Knight-Commander growled.

Athadra’s smirk turned to a grimace. The vials of apprentices’ blood were stored in the Circle Tower’s basements, beneath their feet; it was finding Jowan’s phylactery that had nearly cost Athadra everything, the previous year. Once Harrowed, a mage’s phylactery was moved to Denerim’s Chantry. Since Athadra had taken her Harrowing the night before her escapade on Jowan’s behalf, hers had been removed from the tower scant hours before Jowan’s plan had been set to motion. The missed opportunity still rankled her. “You’ve got my word,” the Warden forced herself to say. “Once the Archdemon is slain, the surviving mages will be beyond my concern.”

“Unless you decide to recruit them _en masse_ ,” the Kight-Commander countered. But he threw up his hands and stepped away from the table. “Fine, _Commander_ ,” he sneered. “Not a soul more than twenty, you understand? And I’ll drag each and every one of them back here in chains, if you force me to.”

“Understood, Knight-Commander,” the Warden sighed. Without a second glance, she turned from the table and led her companions through the great doors and into the apprentice’s quarters and the library beyond. The stone and wood were still scarred from the horrors Uldred’s vanity had unleashed, but the tower was recovering. Athadra found First Enchanter Irving in his office on the second floor, and after a brief conference, they came up with a list of five senior enchanters, with the balance of the force drawn equally from enchanters and novices. The Warden didn’t bring any Tranquil mages, since Bodahn’s adoptive son Sandal could work runecraft as well as any of them, and the dwarves had taken up residence in Redcliffe Castle months previously.

A few of the picked mages were reluctant to join the fight, and Athadra could not promise that they would be unharmed, but a few stirring words from Irving gave everyone courage enough to quit the tower. The Warden was the last on Eamon’s ship, wary for any templars that might have thought to stow away. Once she and her companions had all reached the deck, the ship’s captain barked the vessel into motion, and they were not long in sailing South. As the last time Athadra saw herself from the Circle Tower’s dock, the voyage took just over a day, from midafternoon to the next evening. The journey’s end proved more eventful than the previous excursion, however; about an hour before the boat made landfall in Redcliffe, both of the Wardens felt a subtle twinge in their blood which grew stronger as they neared the village. The sensation of nearby darkspawn convinced Athadra to re-don her just as a few columns of smoke rose on the Southern horizon, and she told the fighters and mages under her command to ready themselves for battle. Evidently, the darkspawn were not content to wait for the Warden Commander’s strategem to unfold.

The sight of burning buildings and swarming hurlocks greeted the Wardens as their ship neared the docks. “Protect the mages,” Athadra instructed Ser Perth. “Let us take point.”

“But there are hundreds!” The knight protested, looking even more distressed than he had when fighting the demon-spawned corpses.

The elf threw a leg over the ship’s rail, too impatient for the gangplank. “We’ve dealt with more,” she assured him. “Stay back. The mages know how to fight, and to heal...they just need the space, and the security.”

Ser Perth nodded and turned to relay his orders, while Alistair joined her at the railing. “Do you think the arl and the others are alright?”

Athadra shrugged, scrabbling down the fishing net hanging over the side of the boat. “The castle ain’t afire yet,” she pointed out. When she reached the boardwalk, the Warden did not pause for her king or any other companions to catch up; the party’s arrival had drawn the attention of an enormous ogre, which was wrenching a boulder free from a stone wall, apparently intent on using the ship as target practice. Heedless of caution, Athadra hurtled herself forward, drawing her twin longswords as she went. A battlecry caught the brute’s attention, as well as that of a few smaller darkspawn nearby, who rushed to head the Warden off. The creatures fell much more easily than expected, however, and Athadra cut her way to the ogre just as it hefted the stone onto its shoulder.

“Come on, you bastard,” the elf cried out. “Hit me!” She saw the monster’s face twist into a malevolent grin, but just when she thought to dive, a half-dozen frost spells struck the beast at once. The rock toppled unceremoniously from its perch, just as a volley of conjured rocks smashed into the ogre’s chest and face, so that its head shattered into a thousand pieces before Athadra had even reached it. A quick glance over her shoulder saw ten mages on the ship’s deck, lobbing offensive spells into the knots of darkspawn, while the rest made their way onto the boardwalk accompanied by Ser Perth’s men. Nearby, Shale and the Sten battled a second ogre, while the rest of the Warden’s company cut the human-like hurlocks to ribbons. Even her mabari had entered the fray, apparently eager to have his paws on dry ground.

“Down you go!” Shouted Alistair, as he swung his sword and shield in different directions, felling three of the monsters at once. When Athadra rushed past him to rejoin the fighting, he yelled out at her. “Is it just me, or is this too easy?”

The elf had no answer for him, other than trying to one-up his body count. Indeed, the fiends were falling with as little as a single well-placed arrow from Leliana or Zevran, and Athadra hardly felt the battle-madness that so often took her when she fought. With the combined efforts of magic and steel, the Wardens swept up the steep hill upon which much of the village had been built. When they neared the castle’s bridge, a platoon of dwarves blocked off the retreat of the last few darkspawn, and after a few minutes, their corrupted bodies lay still. In all, Redcliffe had taken less than an hour to free, though Athadra’s blood still warned her of more monsters nearby.

The dwarves were led by Behlen’s emissary to Arl Eamon, a Warrior Caste dwarf named Fellhammer. “The elves warned us of the approaching ‘spawn,” the man told Athadra, once the skirmish had ended. “Arl Eamon gathered the whole village into the castle, but we elected to guard the gates.”

“Good man,” Alistair commended the dwarf, his eyes scanning the Southern ridge. “Do you feel it too, Commander?” He’d taken to using her title, at least around strangers, since his own acclamation as king.

“Aye, Your Majesty,” Athadra countered, her own use of the honorific still tinged with a bit of sarcasm. “We’ve got another assault coming,” she called to the crowd of mages and soldiers behind her. “And this one might not be so easy to fend off,” she warned, using the tingle in her veins as a guide. “Stay on this side of the river.” She took Garahel, Alistair, Shale, Oghren, and the Sten across the small stone bridge which spanned the top of Redcliffe’s waterfall, intending to head off the attack well short of the village proper. The Warden tensed when she saw a figure cresting the ridge at a run, but an instant later she recognized the long hair and close-cropped beard of Riordan, and she threw up a hand to stay her allies.

The Orlesian Warden gasped for breath, looking shocked and relieved to see his welcoming party. “When I saw the smoke,” he said through heaves, “I feared the worst...have we...casualties?”

“I don’t know,” Athadra replied. “The dwarves say everyone else is shut up in the castle.” She offered the winded man her waterskin, which he sucked greedily at.

“A very powerful ogre is headed this way, with perhaps two hundred grunts,” Riordan explained, after he’d caught a bit of breath. “Those are weak darkspawn of any type,” he elaborated, at Athadra’s questioning look. “Often young and unskilled, they only come out in force if the horde has mobilized.”

Athadra took a hearty drink from the waterskin, herself. “So this was the vanguard?” She asked, suddenly nervous at how easily most of the darkspawn had been dispatched. “Is the Archdemon coming here?”

Riordan shook his head, slowly. “This is but a feint, meant to pin us down, I’m certain of it.” The man turned back to the ridge, his face grim. “The Archdemon flies at the head of the horde, and she has turned East, laying waste to the Brecilian Forest.”

The elf’s stomach bottomed out. “To Denerim,” she finished for him. If the man answered, his words were lost in the symphony of guttural screams which announced the arrival of the next wave of darkspawn. The weakest specimens led the charge, but as Riordan had estimated, there were easily as many of the fiends as had already been put down. From behind the Wardens, mages called down firestorms and blizzards and tempests, along with more minor spells, so the mass of corrupted monsters was much reduced by the time it reached the waiting warriors. The ogre proved terrible indeed, but together, the three Wardens and their companions saw the beast stilled along with the rest of its branch of the horde.

As the sun finally set on the burned-out village, the Wardens and their complement of mages and warriors returned to Redcliffe’s castle. Friga was on-hand almost immediately when they entered the bailey, organizing her former confederates from the Circle to tend the wounds opened by the combat--most serious between Athadra, Riordan, and Alistair--and by the time the Wardens stood in the castle’s feasting hall, they all felt rejuvenated.

Arl Eamon no longer wore the fine silks of his station as a noble, but the heavy armour of the warrior he’d been during the Rebellion. When Riordan informed him of the horde’s intent, the man’s expression became ashen.  “Teagan,” he breathed, and his younger brother materialized by his side, similarly armed and armoured. “Dispatch three of our fastest riders to the capitol--Anora must be warned.” The queen had remained in Denerim in order to continue governing. The bann bowed and set off to discharge his duty, while Eamon rounded on the Wardens. “This is a disaster,” he breathed. “Our forces remain scattered throughout the country--even King Behlen’s full force will not arrive here until the morning, at the earliest.”

Riordan managed a small smile. “Do not lose hope, my friend,” he insisted. “How many soldiers will we have, once the dwarves have joined us?”

The arl frowned, clearly dubious, but he must have done a mental accounting nonetheless. “Within the castle are just over four hundred men-at-arms, gathered from the surrounding bannrics, as well as two-dozen knights and their squires, and fifty dwarves.”

“There are upwards of a hundred bow- and dagger-wielding elves, as well,” Athadra pointed out. “And twenty mages, which you’ve already seen.”

“And more men have been called?” Asked Riordan, his brow drawing down. When Eamon nodded, so did the Senior Warden. “If we fly to the city with all speed, on the Imperial Highway, we should be able to arrive before it is completely invested.”

Arl Eamon barked a laugh. “To what end?”

“To destroy the Archdemon,” Alistair retorted. “Without its purpose to guide them, the horde will disperse, and will eventually return to the Groundbreak even if the capitol lay in ruins.” He grimaced, probably envisioning the opening days of his monarchy as a failure already.

Athadra looked from the still-uncrowned king to the arl. “The plan will still work, Eamon,” she insisted. “Without the dragon, the beasts will rout, no matter how far they outnumber us.” She spoke with a confidence she had no right to feel, but Riordan offered no contradiction to her proclamation.

“Very well,” Eamon conceded. “If we prepare tonight, and set out at first light, a forced march will see us to Denerim in three days...perhaps less,” he reasoned. A bit of colour returned to his cheeks. “You three have done more than enough for one night. My brother the bann and I shall see to the preparations.” The arl inclined his head, and Athadra understood that they were dismissed; Alistair seemed to take no umbrage, despite his newly-acquired station above the older man.

“I would like a word in private with my colleagues,” Riordan announced, just as Eamon looked to turn from them. “Will your bedchamber suffice?”

The arl paused, clearly considering the ichor which streaked over their faces and armour. “I doubt I will sleep tonight,” he announced, “so the room is yours until we march.”

Riordan inclined his head. “ _Merci_ ,” he breathed, too lowly for the Fereldans around them to hear. Then he turned to his two fellow Wardens, his expression grave. “Come...we have much to discuss.”


	62. Boil, Bubble, Toil And Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The three Grey Wardens confer in private, where Riordan lets slip the closely-guarded secret of why the Wardens are necessary to actually end the Blights. The news dismays the two younger Wardens, but Athadra is thrown for a further loop when Morrigan returns, with an offer that the elf must consider well.

Riordan was the last into Eamon’s bedroom; he sealed the door and checked the servants’ entrances, and Athadra thought she caught him checking the portraits for eye-holes, but when he was certain they were truly alone, the man breathed a heavy sigh. “The arl is not wrong in his reservations,” the Senior Warden allowed. “Our chance to strike a decisive blow in Denerim is....slim.”

“And if we fail?” Alistair’s voice was grim, as though he already knew the answer.

Athadra pronounced it, regardless. “Then we die, and Ferelden burns.”

“That is more true than you may know,” said Riordan. “Do either of you know why Grey Wardens are necessary to end a Blight?”

Athadra’s brow drew down. “Because we are linked to the darkspawn,” she ventured. “We can sense one another, and the taint inside of us puts us on an even footing.”

Riordan frowned, apparently displeased. “That is all true,” he conceded, “but incomplete. I apologise for not mentioning this before...I had simply assumed that Duncan would have told you.”

“He probably meant to,” Alistair observed. “He never got the chance, though.”

“In any case,” the Orlesian Warden pressed on, gruffly. “If that were the entirety, then any group of warriors of sufficient skill could slay the Archdemon, even though the corruption would poison them in the attempt.” He shook his head. “Yet this is not so. The Joining binds us to the darkspawn, but it does more than that...for in the chalice, along with the darkspawn blood and raw lyrium, there is a drop of blood from an Archdemon,” the man admitted.

Athadra quirked a brow. “But then...how did the first Grey Wardens come into being?”

Riordan blinked, seemingly impressed. “At first, they were simple soldiers,” he said. “From the Anderfels, and a few from the Tevinter Imperium. Yet, without the Joining, they fell just as certainly to the taint as any other men.” The man turned, regarding the low embers of the chamber’s fireplace. “During the First Blight, many cures to the taint were sought...but none were found, until the tainted high dragon had been slain and its blood distilled by Imperial alchemists.” He heaved a sigh, turning back to them. “Yet this did not end the Blight, for the Archdemon did not truly die,” Riordan continued, his voice hardly above a whisper. “Instead, its essence sought out the nearest tainted creature,” he explained. “And when that darkspawn was slain, the Archdemon possessed another, and another. This is why the First Blight endured for two centuries, and nearly overwhelmed the whole of Thedas.”

Athadra’s throat grew dry, but she did not move to wet it. “How were it ended?” A rough idea had already formed in her thoughts, but she did not put voice to it.

“As far as we can tell, the essence of the Archdemon seeks out anything with the taint, but you know that the darkspawn are soulless vessels,” Riordan elaborated. “There is nothing in them to prevent the Archdemon from taking root, and continuing its reign of evil...except, instead of a dragon, its form could be that of any darkspawn.” The Orlesian Warden closed his eyes for a long moment, and did not open them when he continued speaking. “We Wardens carry the taint, but we are not empty jars waiting to be filled,” he breathed, fixing them with his stare once again. “When the Archdemon’s essence attempts to possess a Grey Warden, it conflicts with the conscious mind already present,” Riordan went on. “Unable to resist the attraction of the taint, yet incompatible with the soul of the Warden, the Archdemon’s essence is destroyed...along with that of the Grey Warden who struck the killing blow.”

A shudder crawled down Athadra’s spine; the revelation was even worse than she’d suspected, and despite her assurances to the Sten, she felt a cold trickle of fear infiltrate her belly. “So one of us is going to die, no matter what.”

Riordan inclined his head. “This is our _raison d’etre_ ,” he confirmed. “That is why, if we should all fall before felling the dragon, this Blight will spread last for decades...perhaps for centuries.” He looked from Athadra to Alistair. “By custom as well as sense, the blow should be mine to make, since I am the eldest. The taint will not spare me much longer, in any case.”

Alistair didn’t look any more courageous than Athadra felt. “But if you don’t make it...”

“Then one of you must do so,” he insisted. “Even if every fighting man and woman must sacrifice their lives to see you to the Archdemon, yours must be the blade that sees it from this world, if I am incapable.” His gaze fell upon Athadra. “This is why Duncan recruited you both, Commander,” he said. “Despite our secrets, despite how suspect our methods and despised our members, the Grey Wardens are indispensable in this fight.”

Athadra’s heart hammered in her ears, but she found herself nodding. “I understand,” she said, a bit mechanically. “And I will do it, if needs must.” She looked to Alistair, whose lips had parted, but he swallowed his protest with a grimace.

“You’d probably conk me on the head and have Sten put me in a fancy dress,” the monarch conceded. “But I pray it won’t come to that.”

“As do I,” Riordan added. “Now, we have a battle behind us, and a much larger one in front, after a long march. We should take what rest we can.”

Athadra returned the man’s bow, and she filed from the room, her footsteps heavy. She and Alistair parted ways at the main hallway, the king taking a right, while she proceeded to her favoured chambers down the next corridor. As she approached, she saw that the door was opened, and her ears picked up the crackle of a lively fire. Her breath caught when she pushed past the doorway, her vision filling with a silhouette that she hadn’t dared to think about for months.

“ _Do not be alarmed_ ,” Morrigan called, over her shoulder. She spoke in Elvish; the many long nights they’d spent conversing in her lost mother tongue flooded back to Athadra, and she gripped the doorframe to keep herself from stumbling as the Wilds-witch continued. “ _I have a way out. The thread for your needle_.” She turned on the Warden, and Athadra fancied she could yet again see slits in the pupils of those strange eyes. A blink saw the illusion ended, but those green-gold orbs remained as beguiling as Athadra had found them in the Korcari Wilds.

The elf pulled herself properly into the room and shut the door behind her, leaning on it heavily, so that Starfang pressed into the back of her armour. “ _What of it?_ ”

“ _I know what happens when an Archdemon dies_ ,” Morrigan insisted, her face tightening in concern. “ _And I trust that you’re foolish enough keep Alistair from making the blow, himself_.” The Wilds-witch managed a small smile, but her words stung, even so.

The Warden sucked in a breath, trying to steel herself against the rising tide of emotions which she’d stuffed so deeply within, after Morrigan’s departure. “ _I’ve missed you_ ,” she said, before she could help herself. A single hot tear fell down Athadra’s cheek, cutting a swathe through the tried darkspawn blood upon her face.

At the elf’s pronouncement, Morrigan’s expression hardened into a mask. “Did you?” She replied in the King’s Tongue, sounding thoroughly bemused.

Athadra found herself thumbing the ring the Wilds-witch had given her. “Aye,” she insisted. “I ran after you the second you left.”

“And then you took your pleasures out on the assassin,” Morrigan pointed out, blankly. “Or so I gathered, from what I witnessed of the pair of you in the woods and in _Denerim_.” She mentioned the capitol with a sneer. “Mucking about in the sewer with the pirate.”

The Warden’s eyes narrowed. “I knew it,” she hissed, her fists clenching at her sides. “You took wing as a bird and spied on me.”

The witch’s facade cracked slightly, but did not break. “I merely observed, to ensure you did not do anything too foolish...though, of course, you did.” She broke off, turning to face the fire once more. “I had to watch you throw your life away in defence of a queen you detest, and I was powerless to avert the consequences.” The woman’s voice was strained, as though she were holding back a sob. “Though I do have one question,” she ventured, when Athadra did not respond. “Why did you take up my ring again?” Still, Morrigan exposed her back to the Warden.

“You know why,” Athadra breathed through clenched teeth.

“I would have you tell me,” the witch insisted. “I would have you say the words.”

The Warden kicked off from the door, stepping within two paces of her companion. “Fine,” she grudged, her heart leaping. “ _I love you_. I think I have ever since I woke up in your bed, back in the Wilds,” she admitted. “Maybe even from the moment I first saw you.”

One of Morrigan’s hands disappeared in front of her face, and when she turned, Athadra saw streaks in the evenshade ochre beneath her eyes. “How do you explain your conduct with Zevran, then?”

“You left me,” Athadra shot back, her tone lowering dangerously. “I couldn’t face that alone.”

“What does he mean to you, Athadra?” A glimmer of anger coloured the witch’s tone.

The Warden swallowed. “He’s a skilled fighter,” she allowed. “At first, I took his screams and his blood,” Athadra confessed, “to keep me from going mad.” Athadra shook her head when Morrigan’s lips parted. “It were only after I realized that I were afraid of his touch that I took him to my bed,” she explained. “And then only a handful of times.”

“And the wench?” Morrigan’s brow arched dangerously.

“Were a one-off,” Athadra claimed. “Which I’d not have considered if you still stood beside me.”

“So ‘tis my fault--” began the Wilds-witch, but the Warden broke in.

“What is this thread, you spoke of?” A frown tugged at Athadra’s lips, suspicion tickling the edge of her mind, even as the better part of her hungered for an opportunity to evade the fate which Riordan’s words had seemingly consigned her to.

Morrigan’s lips parted and she blinked several times, evidently reorganizing her thoughts. Rather than speak immediately, however, the Wilds-witch stalked over to the bed she’d shared, sitting at the very end of it. “‘Tis a ritual,” she began. “Performed on the eve of battle, in the dark of night.” Athadra’s eyes narrowed, but she did not interrupt. “You must convince Alistair to lay with me,” Morrigan informed her, not quite meeting the elf’s gaze. “Tonight.”

The Warden did her best to swallow her incredulity. “Why?” She managed to whisper, though part of her wanted to scream, and she realized how Morrigan might have felt when seeing her lay hands on the Antivan.

“At the highpoint of the ritual, a child will be conceived,” Morrigan explained. “With the blood of a Grey Warden...and the irresistible taint which that implies.” Finally, the Wilds-witch looked at Athadra once more. “And when the Archdemon is slain, its essence will be drawn inexorably into the newly-conceived child.”

“Will that kill it?” The Warden posed the question neutrally, as though it were merely academic.

Morrigan shook her head. “At that early stage, the taint will be stripped from the Archdemon’s essence, leaving the soul of an Old God to infuse the child-to-be,” she elaborated. “It will end the Blight, without need of your death,” the Wilds-witch insisted.

“Are you certain?” Athadra tilted her head, hardly daring to hope, even as part of her rebelled against the idea.

“‘Twas the reason my mother sent me with you in the first place,” Morrigan revealed. “And now that she is no longer in the picture,” she went on, “I can raise this child as I see fit.”

A grimace flickered over Athadra’s lips. “Why couldn’t Riordan be the object of the ritual, then?”

Morrigan frowned. “Even if he could be convinced, the taint has been within him far too long. It is impossible.” She leaned forward, those eyes boring into Athadra’s face. “It must be Alistair,” she reiterated. “And it must be tonight.”

The Warden’s thoughts swam, suspicion and desperation blending; she did not trust that Flemeth was well and truly dead, and even if so, perhaps the old woman’s death was necessary in order to resurrect with even more power than before...especially if her new body would also have the essence of an untainted Old God to command. And yet Athadra had so many half-formed plans for her life--for Ferelden, for the Grey Wardens, possibly even for herself and Morrigan. She could not countenance giving all of them up, even at the price of her duty. “Do you love me?”

Morrigan’s expression twisted, as though the question were unwelcome, but not unexpected. “You know that I care for you,” she breathed. “That is all the more motivation for me to see it done.”

“I would have you say the words,” Athadra echoed back to the Wilds-witch. That would be her price, even if she’d already decided.

A range of expressions flashed over Morrigan’s features, but after a moment they settled into a grimace. “Very well,” she snapped, anger flaring in her eyes. “I have come to love you, Athadra. For all of the suffering it has brought the both of us.” The Wilds-witch averted her eyes from the smile which curled over Athadra’s lips, and continued in a low whisper. “Go to Alistair,” she pleaded. “And when tonight is through, I shall accompany you to the battle,” Morrigan allowed. “Afterward, I shall disappear...and you shall not follow. Ever.” The woman’s voice broke on that last word, but she held back the threatened sob.

The Warden’s heart still thudded behind her breastplate. “I’ll go see to Alistair,” she acceded. “But I will not let you slip away from me again,” Athadra vowed. “Not without a fight.” Before the Wilds-witch could respond, the Warden swept from the room, her steps oddly light despite the weight of her boots.

Alistair answered her knock, wearing a simple pair of trousers and nothing else; his skin appeared freshly-washed, his face smooth save for a budding patch of fur on his chin which Eamon had convinced him to cultivate. “Why haven’t you had a bath, Athadra?”

“Been busy,” she replied, pushing past him and into the room. Leliana lay reading in the bed, a blanket pulled up to her chin. “Do you trust him?”

The half-Orlesian did not look up from her codex. “With my life.”

Athadra rounded upon her fellow Warden. “Do you trust me?”

The sudden question seemed to take the man aback. “I...guess so?” He shrugged. “You’ve put my arse on the throne and my feet in the fire. So...yes, I trust you.”

The elf’s brow drew down. “You need to lay with Morrigan,” she said, bluntly. “Tonight. Soon.”

One of Alistair’s brows rose, while the other pulled down slowly and his lips parted. It would have been hilarious, were Athadra’s attention not utterly focused on convincing the man. “What...I... _Morrigan_?” He looked from Athadra to Leliana, but the Warden could not see the bard’s expression. “I thought she was gone!”

“She were,” Athadra answered. “She’s back, now.”

“I do not understand,” Leliana offered, at last. When the Warden glanced over her shoulder, she noted the woman’s honest puzzlement.

“It’s Warden business,” the elf supplied. It was a mark of her respect for the bard that she hadn’t ordered her out of the room. “Suffice it to say that if Alistair doesn’t do this, it’s likely that either he or I will die in Denerim.”

“You don’t know that,” Alistair insisted. “It could be Riordan!”

That appeared to alarm Leliana. “One of you will definitely die?” She sat up swiftly, and Athadra saw that she still wore a nightshirt, to the elf’s surprise.

“Maybe all of us,” Athadra replied. “But if you can do this thing, Alistair, none of us need to.” The demand tasted sour upon her tongue, but the will to live had the Warden making it anyway. “You need to trust me about this.”

“But I thought you two were...you know, at least before she left,” the king pointed out, still supremely uncomfortable. “Why would you want me to do that?”

“Because I don’t want to die this week,” Athadra shot back. “And I’d really prefer it if you didn’t, either.” She took a breath, and turned away from both of them. “Look, I don’t like it anymore than you do,” she said. “Believe me, I don’t. But that doesn’t change the fact that it has to be done.”

Alistair was silent for a long moment, but then he heaved a sigh. “Why do I have to do it?”

“It’s magic,” the Warden admitted, regarding the man anew. “Not blood magic,” she hastened to add, though she wasn’t at all certain that was the case. “But the spell requires a particular kind of energy to succeed, from a particular source.”

Alistair’s eyes narrowed. “Why can’t you do it, then? Or Riordan?”

Athadra swallowed, racking her brain. “I’m ill-equipped,” she stammered; she anticipated that the whole truth might be somewhat counterproductive. “And Riordan’s more than resigned to his fate. I doubt he’d even entertain the notion.”

She saw her fellow Warden look desperately from her to Leliana, and she could guess his own thoughts--the plans he himself had made, all turning upon his decision this night. “What should I do?” He asked, at last, seeming to deflate before them.

The bard offered him a demure smile. “I would have you live,” she whispered. “I have not finished teaching you Orlesian yet,” she reasoned, “so all the work we’ve done would have been a terrible waste.”

“And I would have you rule Ferelden,” Athadra added. “Just as I would have myself rebuild the Grey Wardens, with your help.”

The twin assault appeared to sway the king, and he drew up, looking like a condemned man ready to face the gallows. “Alright,” he finally conceded. “But if this works and either of you ever tells anyone,” he said, only half-jokingly, “you’ll wish I _had_ died facing the Archdemon.”


	63. Save What’s Left Of The Banner For Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A year's work finally nears its end, as Athadra and her companions--rounded out, once more, by Flemeth's daughter--march at the head of an army. Denerim is their goal, in a mad race with the Archdemon and its terrible followers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: The song is a shortened and modified version of "the Battle Hymn of the Republic."

The noonday sun weighed the army down, even as they neared the borderlands between the South Reach and Dragon’s Peak bannrics, which meant they were only a handful of hours from the capitol. It was the second day of the brutal march, and the army had only been allowed a few hours’ rest the previous night. At least they truly were an army, now; joined by the full might of Behlen’s expedition and soldiers trickling in from the bannorn, Ferelden’s forces numbered over two thousand. Dark clouds to the South heralded the parallel march of the darkspawn, burning a path through the Brecilian Forest in their headlong rush to the capitol, where upwards of seventy thousand civilians awaited the slaughter.

As the formal commander of the force, Athadra rode on horseback at its head, along with Arl Eamon, Riordan, Alistair, and all of the companions she’d gathered in her efforts since Ostagar. The Warden knew that Valena, the smith Owen’s daughter, marched among Ser perth’s men; the girl had taken to squire, at Athadra’s suggestion. The elf tried not to contemplate the likelihood that her words would likely lead to the girl’s death, possibly in just a few hours. Even Friga rode at Athadra’s side, insisting that she fight the darkspawn beside the Grey Wardens. Too distracted by Morrigan’s ritual and the promise it held, Athadra hadn’t taken too much convincing. The Avvar mage rode at her right, while the Wilds-witch had taken to the Warden’s left. She would do all she could to keep the other two women alive, in the fight to come.

Athadra had organized the Circle mages into five squads of four, each headed by a senior enchanter, and had them combing through the ranks of footsoldiers, where they practiced arts of healing and rejuvenation. It was the first time many of the fighting men and women had ever seen magic, and served as a good introduction to the humanity of the mages, as well as helping the warriors remain afoot. Nearly all of the lyrium that Athadra had acquired from her journey and her dealings with King Behlen had been distributed amongst the healers as well, yet even with their magical attention, the effort of moving so many miles in so little time steadily wore the army down.

As the sun began its daily descent at their backs, the Warden noticed Friga humming to herself. After a few moments of listening, she spoke up. “What are you doing?"

The other woman flinched, a hint of a blush crossing her cheeks. “Nothing,” she breathed, glancing away.

“Sounded like a song,” Athadra pointed out. The army’s mood was too somber for anything but sporadic, gallows-themed exclamations or hymns to the Maker, none of which had taken root so far. “What were it?”

Friga threw a glance Athadra’s way, managing a half-smile. “Just a couple of verses of a poem I learnt as a girl,” she explained. “Before I was _rescued_ from apostasy.” That was what all the young mages in the Circle’s care were told, and most came to believe it, in time. Friga’s tone made it clear that she still had her doubts.

“I wouldn’t mind hearing it,” Athadra let on. “If you’d a mind to share.”

The Avvar hesitated, even as her horse continued picking its way along the Imperial Highway. “I suppose,” she allowed. “I don’t know all of it, though,” she warned. “Just the beginning.” When the Warden nodded, Friga cleared her throat self-consciously, and began to sing.

 

_Mine ears have heard the glory in the drawing of the sword_

_The ringing of Korth’s gifts of steel spreads terror and discord_

_The Lady looses fateful lightning in amongst the frightened horde_

_Hakkon’s chill breath spurs us on._

_I have seen Them in the watch-fires of a hundred raiding bands_

_We have builded Them their altars all across our sacred lands_

_Our sword-arms and our shamans work to fulfil their demands_

_The tribe keeps marching on._

The mage’s voice trailed off, and she shook her head. “Like I said, it isn’t much.”

Athadra felt a stirring in her heart at the song, despite Friga’s modesty. “It’s brilliant,” she exclaimed. She looked around her, at the dour faces of her companions and the resigned exhaustion of the knights and men-at-arms behind them, as far as the eye could see. There were still hours yet before they reached Denerim. “Sing it again.”

Friga took a steadying breath and nodded, repeating the simple song. Halfway through, Athadra’s battle-roughened voice joined hers, and the Warden took it upon herself to lead the third repetition. Soon enough Leliana had lent her practiced tones to the effort; Athadra even jostled Morrigan into joining in, though the Wilds-witch did so only reluctantly.

There were few priests around to scold them for giving voice to the heretical stanzas, which venerated the three principal gods of the Avvar peoples, who were themselves part of the Alamarri confederation of tribes out of which Ferelden had been built. Andraste herself had been an Alamarri, and together with her warlord husband Maferath, she’d broken the Tevinter Imperium’s hold over Southern and Eastern Thedas. With their commander’s encouragement, Friga’s song spread backward along the column, taken up by farmers and knights whose ancestors had worshipped Korth the Mountain Father, and the Lady of the Skies, and Hakkon Wintersbreath. The song morphed as its choir grew, new lines and verses getting tacked on while others were abandoned, until the song itself became a living thing, growing and changing in its own right.

Eventually, even the dwarves of Orzammar and the Dalish elves succumbed to the energy which the song imparted. Soon there was not a single man or woman on the march who didn’t voice their hopes and fears through it, claiming it as their own. For hours, Athadra listened to the sung words weaving through her army; occasionally the voices dimmed like scattered embers, but then the cacophony would swell to make the very gods above take notice. The afternoon slipped away in this manner, miles of ground consumed by the chorus. The Warden couldn’t even begrudge mentions of the Maker or passages of the Chant of Light that wormed their way into the song, despite her own lack of faith in either.

As the army drew nearer to Denerim, the sky above them tinged red with the setting sun, and the heartening song slowly faded when they saw their capitol city already aflame. Eamon called their progress to a halt by an abandoned watchtower on a high hill overlooking the carnage below; the Warden and her companions dismounted, and Athadra gave a quick pat to Garahel’s head, who’d never been more than ten paces from her for the duration. The vanguard of Redcliffe knights and well-armed bannorn soldiers gathered around the commanders, whispers and wails already beginning to cut through the courage they’d mustered.

Arl Eamon looked expectantly at Alistair, who froze for a moment. Athadra nudged him and gestured to the watchtower’s raised platform, and the monarch gave her a pleading look. With a nod, the Warden followed her king onto the platform, to confront the people they’d asked to come and die for them. “My friends,” he called out, holding out his hands to gather the throng’s attention. Standing in his gilded armour, battle-scratched as it had become, did at least as much as his words to quiet the crowd. “I am Alistair Theirin,” he began. “Son to Maric, and brother to Cailan, as you all know.” The last of the murmuring died down at the force of Alistair’s tone. “You also know that I am King of Ferelden, elected freely by the Landsmeet in the very city we’ve come to save, and I tell you that I am here to fight and bleed with you.”

A gasp shook his audience, among whom stood many of the nobles who’d witnessed his accession to the throne in person. Athadra could guess why; her blood veritably screamed within her veins, and she didn’t need to turn to know that the silhouette of the Archdemon was descending upon the city. Alistair slammed an armoured fist into his palm. “Yes, the darkspawn horde lays before us, bringing havoc to the birthplace of Andraste,” he yelled. “But fear them not! Beside me stands the Commander of the Grey,” he announced, gesturing to Athadra. Swallowing, the Warden stepped forward, casting her crimson gaze over the crowd, even as Alistair continued. “A more courageous and glorious Grey Warden than this country has ever seen! This woman grew up an elf in Ferelden, raised to the ranks of the Wardens on the eve of the massacre at Ostagar.” The king drew a deep breath, to project his voice even more loudly. “From these ashes, this elf rose to meet every challenge! She became the Champion of Redcliffe, and the Slayer of Loghain, whom she felled in single combat.” Another murmur emerged amongst those who’d only heard the rumours of that last feat; the low-born Loghain Mac Tir had become a living legend, considered undefeatable. “She is the reason we’ve gathered here, and she will fight to free her home of these monsters, just as you and I fight.”

Before them all, Alistair drew his father’s sword and unshouldered Duncan’s shield. He hopped down from the platform, standing astride the path which led to Denerim’s gates. “Today, we fight to preserve our homeland,” he assured them. “Today, we avenge the death of my brother, King Cailan.” By now, Athadra had joined him, wordlessly unsheathing her longswords as she went. “But most of all,” the king went on, “today we show the Grey Wardens that we remember their sacrifice. For Ferelden!” A cheer went up among the energized mass. “For the Grey Wardens!”

With that, both he and Athadra turned heel and descended the hill, toward the rioting darkspawn which swarmed over Denerim’s main thoroughfare. Riordan and Garahel were not far behind, followed by the Warden’s other companions. Eamon, Teagan, and the rest of the army flowed over the hillside after them, yet for all the noise of their boots and their battlecries, Athadra’s ears were filled with the pounding of her own heartbeat and the call of the taint in her blood. She struck out ahead of her fellows, launching herself into the screaming ranks of the darkspawn that hadn’t yet passed through the city’s smashed gates.

If anyone considered Alistair’s praise for her courage an empty boast, the Warden certainly proved them wrong, wading into the thick of her foes with nothing but her blades and her mabari by her side. The long weeks of agony she’d felt in Morrigan’s absence, coupled with the awkward handful of hours she’d spent in the witch’s company surrounded by so many strangers, melted away from Athadra as she cut ribbons into the corrupted flesh of her enemies. She’d fought her way halfway to Denerim’s ruined double doors before Riordan and the Sten caught up with her, with Alistair and Oghren not far behind. A bellowing cry rent the air when the Archdemon swooped low overhead, but Athadra did not answer its challenge, focused utterly on bringing death to as many of the fiends as her swords could reach. Luckily the dragon did not make its stand there, evidently electing to postpone the inevitable engagement.

After the main body of the vanguard had joined battle, the darkspawn who stood and fought at the walls were overwhelmed. The Wardens pressed beyond the broken doors and into the city’s entrance square, which still swarmed with the fiends. The sun had set upon Denerim by the time the wretched beasts had been cleared from the area, though many more had infiltrated deeper into the city’s many districts, and the bulk of the horde had yet to reach the city’s walls. In the brief respite, Athadra and Riordan moved organized the defence of the square.

“I can sense the presence of at least two darkspawn generals further in,” the Orlesian Warden warned. “The Archdemon will surely call them to its aid, if it is pressed.”

“So we should go after them?” Athadra wiped a smear of blood from her mouth, lest she fall prey to the temptation to use it.

Riordan hitched his shoulders. “That is my advice,” he said, “though it will not come without cost. The more quickly we can ground the Archdemon, the more secure we will be before the horde arrives in force to invest our troops.”

Alistair stepped forward. “But these generals will run rampant if we don’t take care of them,” he pointed out. “I vote that we see them dead.”

Athadra might have laughed at the disdainful sigh Morrigan made, but her blood was already rising in anticipation of the renewed struggle. “I agree,” she decided, with finality. “Can you tell where these generals might be?”

Riordan’s eyes narrowed, his head tilting in concentration. “I believe one is near the market square,” he breathed. “The other is beyond...perhaps in the Alienage, perhaps the docks. There are too many other powerful darkspawn to be certain.”

“Let’s hope Anora received our message,” Alistair commented, though Athadra could tell that his own corrupted blood tinged his anxiety with excitement.

“Then I suggest that we split up,” Riordan announced. “The three of us together will draw far too much attention to make good time.” He regarded the bulk of the army, still forcing their way through the massive doors. “You should take a small contingent of your allies into the city proper, and leave the rest here to keep more darkspawn from breaching the gate.”

Athadra’s brow rose. “What do you intend to do?”

“I will scout on alone,” Riordan informed them. “With my skills and the extent of my taint, I should be able to get close enough to the Archdemon to seize any opportunity which might present itself.”

Athadra stifled the suspicion that the man would use those skills to simply flee; she’d seen him fight as courageously as any warrior on two occasions, now, and his face held grim resignation. “Very well,” she allowed. “Go. We’ll set off to the market, in a few minutes.”

“Commander,” the elder Warden breathed, inclining his head. “The dragon is likely to roost at the top of Fort Drakon, since it is the tallest building within the city. That should be your ultimate destination.” The bearded man turned. “May Andraste watch over us,” he said in parting, slipping away before Athadra could roll her eyes at him.

The Warden rounded on her companions, and the men, elves, and dwarves of the vanguard. “Oghren,” she barked.

“Boss?”

“You, Shale, Leliana, and Zevran should stay here. I’m putting you in command at the gate.” All four companions voiced protest, but Athadra overrode them. “You and Shale have years of experience fighting darkspawn,” the Warden continued. “The men here will need you to keep them from folding.”

The red-bearded dwarf clapped a fist to his chest. “Aye,” he acceded. “It has been an honour, Commander. Let the sodding skalds talk of this night forevermore.”

The Antivan’s brows nitted. “And why should I not enter the maelstrom with you, _querida_?”

Athadra’s face set. She glanced at Leliana. “ _Tell him that if we fail, I would see you both beyond the walls,_ ” she breathed in Orlesian, “ _to rally the Grey Wardens elsewhere in Thedas._ ”

The bard nodded her comprehension, and conveyed the message in Antivan, while Alistair looked torn. Then, in full view of the gathered nobility and soldiery, he pulled Leliana into an embrace. Athadra averted her gaze before the pair kissed, but a few gasps from the nearby warriors told her all she needed to know of its passion.

Friga stepped into the Warden’s line of sight. “I’m coming, too,” the Avvar mage insisted. “I don’t know how gifted Morrigan is at healing, but I know you need me.”

Athadra regarded her for a long moment. “You’re certain?” When Friga nodded, the Warden returned it, and then she broke off to stride into the thick of her troops. “The King and I are for the Archdemon,” she announced. “We only need a few people to come with us, to help clear the way. Are there any volunteers?” Almost immediately a wall of shouts rose up from the motley; nearly everyone in the vanguard seemed eager to follow her. That brought a crooked grin to her face. She picked a dozen elves and dwarves apiece, along with one of the mage squads, and about thirty men-at-arms. “You all follow us from a distance,” she told her select crew. “Keep us from getting overwhelmed from behind, and come forward when we need. The rest of you,” she called more loudly, looking from Eamon to Fellhammer and Lanaya, “stay here and keep the horde from re-taking the gate. The dwarf Oghren will command in my stead.”

Cheers of “Aye, Commander,” or “Yes, Champion,” rang out, and Athadra returned to her company. Morrigan regarded her evenly, while Alistair bid his farewells to the companions they were leaving behind. “So we’re to fight side-by-side after all,” the Wilds-witch observed, her lips quirked. “As it should be.”

Athadra’s heart swelled in her chest as she looked upon the taller woman. Her lips parted to respond, but instead a whim took her, and she grabbed Morrigan by the shoulders and swept the witch into a kiss of her own. Morrigan stiffened for an instant, before yielding to the Warden’s lips. Athadra held the embrace only for a heartbeat, but Morrigan’s warmth lingered once the Warden pulled away. “Onward,” she breathed, blinking away the sudden moisture behind her eyelids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's read so far, but especially to those who've commented, such as HereBeDragons, Scout4it, and Vicky79! Keep checking back every day this week for updates!


	64. Dragonfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing stands between Athadra's band and the Archdemon but a pair of darkspawn generals and a city full of their subordinates. The Wardens must fight every step of the way to the top of Fort Drakon to face the monster they've been hunting for the past year. How much must they sacrifice to ensure victory?

The Archdemon’s generals were two incredibly powerful hurlocks, one of which was a magic-wielding emissary, yet both were accompanied by the strongest and most devastating members their kith had to offer. Once they were slain, Denerim’s market lay in ruins, and the elven Alienage fared only a little better. If Knight-Commander Greagoir had not warned her, the Warden might have even considered ransacking the Denerim Chantry in search of the mages’ phylacteries...for even though she’d sworn to release them after the battle, she had not promised to see them personally back to the Circle. Instead of attempting such madness, Athadra instructed the human fighters to remain in the Alienage, partly so that the ill-armed city elves might have a better chance at surviving until the morning. As Morrigan noted wryly, however, that left Alistair and the trailing squad of Circle mages the only Chantrists left among their expeditionary force, which freed the Warden and Friga to call upon their forbidden arts in relative confidence.

Alistair made no protest when Athadra took advantage of the opportunity, for even though its deadliest subordinates had been dealt with, the path to the Archdemon was still far from clear. Spurred by the tainted Old God, the darkspawn had set up barricades along the approaches to Fort Drakon, and the Archdemon itself occasionally took to wing to harry them; once, it destroyed a bridge which cut off their retreat, and then collapsed a building that the Wardens had looked to use for cover. Athadra had to suppress a shudder at the screams which came from the wreckage; plaintive calls for help or cries of agony had accompanied every step they’d taken since entering the Market Square. There was no telling how many denizens of Denerim had already been killed, or how many more would fall before the Wardens had completed their task.

“Look at that!” Alistair’s head had tilted back, and when Athadra followed his gaze, she saw that the Archdemon hadn’t returned to Fort Drakon after its latest sortie, unlike the last; instead it flew low, apparently trying to graze its spine against the eaves of some of the fort’s outbuildings. “Is that a _person_ riding on its back?”

Athadra’s keener eyes focused on the smaller figure which clung desperately to the Archdemon’s wing. “Riordan,” she breathed, daring to hope that the battle might be won after all.

“Crazy bastard,” Alistair whispered, overawed.

They watched in silence for a few moments as the dragon flapped its wings more urgently, flying higher and higher, until Athadra gasped; she saw Riordan’s grip falter, noticed the flash of his sword as it pierced the leathery scales of the Archdemon’s wing. Then her stomach hollowed out, when the old Warden’s blade proved too sharp...Riordan slipped further and further down those scales, until at last he fell freely. The Wardens were too far away to hear the man hit the ground, but Athadra had no illusions that he might rise. That brief flash of hope dimmed, until she noticed that Riordan’s sacrifice truly had not been in vain--the Archdemon could no longer fly with impunity, its right wing rent asunder by the Warden’s fall. The dragon had to guide itself into the side of Fort Drakon and claw its way to the top, from where she had to tell herself it would not emerge again.

“It’s down to us,” the elf pointed out, breaking the spell. She shared a significant glance with Morrigan, but did not speak her worry; the ritual was done, and any mention of it would only invite further questions...assuming it worked, of course. Assuming any of them lived to test it. “Let’s get a move on.”

The battle recommenced nearly as soon as the Wardens emerged from the rubble, with ogres and powerful emissaries making them pay for every yard of progress made. More than once, Athadra’s blood magic seemed to make the difference between a step forward and all-out retreat, as she boiled the monsters’ blood in their veins and then stole the lingering life-energy of the fallen to power yet more destruction. Step by step, yard by yard, the Wardens and their allies pressed on to the base of Fort Drakon. Once they’d taken the entrance, Athadra tasked the dwarves and the Circle mages with securing it; she would have the best of the Dales standing with her own comrades when they reached the tower’s roof.

The Warden’s charge into Fort Drakon was surprisingly similar to her escape, save that she had more than just Alistair at her back, and their steps led them ever-deeper into the building rather than toward the exit. They went room by room, showing no quarter to the monsters. Luckily the fortress had few wide-open spaces, which kept the Wardens and their allies from getting overwhelmed. A surprise attack by a darkspawn necromancer separated one of the Dalish elves from her fellows, and by the time the Wardens had cut through the corpses to reach her, there was little that Friga could do...but the party took no further casualties until Athadra found the chamber which held the stairway to the second floor. She readied herself to clear it of more fiends; once she’d pushed past the door, however, the scene which met her nearly knocked her over from shock. Darkspawn corpses lay strewn all over the floor, including a couple of massive, pale-purplish ogres, whose faces seemed fixed in utter terror...and beyond the carnage, standing patiently by the foot of the stairs, was the simpleton dwarf Sandal Feddic.

“Sandal!” Athadra cried, picking her way over the fallen creatures to reach him. “What happened here?”

The bow squinted at her, and then grinned. “Enchantment!” He clapped his hands, bobbing up and down on his feet as though she’d just offered him her sword to rune. Bodahn, his adoptive father, had helped to supply the marching army...but the Warden had no idea how Sandal, unarmed and alone, could have made it to Fort Drakon in advance of her party. Not even Riordan had managed it, after all.

Athadra took a second look around; Alistair merely shrugged and raised an eyebrow, while the Sten glowered suspiciously at the dwarf. “We should move on, Kadan,” he advised. “The Archdemon draws no nearer whilst we delay.”

That was true enough, so Athadra gently pushed Sandal aside and mounted the stairs. The fort’s second floor had an incredibly high ceiling and proved no less infested with darkspawn than the level below. The fiends grew stronger with every room, and Athadra had to draw upon her Arcane Warrior abilities for brief periods just to progress. The duel with Teyrn Loghain had taught her not to rely on the ancient elven magic overmuch, and she took advantage of circumstance by using darkspawn blood to balance the mana drained by stepping halfway into the Fade; thus when the party faced down a trio of ogres which stood as the final guardians of the roof’s entrance, it took just a few minutes for Athadra to recover her strength. Friga also used the ogres’ blood to fuel the rejuvenation and minor healing spells that saw the Warden’s companions similarly restored.

“It’s time,” Athadra announced, looking from the Sten to Morrigan, Alistair to Garahel. Her blood fairly buzzed, especially when she looked up into that high-vaulted ceiling. “Are we ready?” Slowly, each of her companions nodded, and her mabari gave a short bark. The Warden’s gaze turned to Friga and the Dalish elves. “I want you all to stay back, as far as you can. Riordan wounded the bastard, so it mightn’t be able to fly, but it’ll still be very dangerous to face on the ground.”

The leader of the elven squadron, an older hunter named Hishal, stepped forward. “What if we run out of arrows?”

Athadra had counseled them to conserve them up until now, and forbidden gathering any which necessity forced them to fire. “Then pray the gods see you from the rooftop alive,” she replied. With a final nod to Alistair, and a lingering sidelong glance at Morrigan, Athadra took her greatblade in hand and began the long climb up the narrow staircase that would see them all to the roof, and the dragon which lay there in wait.

The winding stone stairway began trembling at seemingly-random intervals once they’d passed the halfway point, along with the fort’s thick walls. When the Wardens at last reached the very top of the tower, they learned the reason why--Riordan’s sword had indeed sundered the Archdemon’s wing, but with effort, the dragon could lift a few dozen feet into the air before plunging back down. Currently, the monster was making sport of a few of Denerim’s native soldiers, who must’ve sought refuge on the roof when it was clear the city was being overrun. They screamed for help, or for their Maker, while the tainted god crushed them under heel and burned them alive with great gouts of purple flame. Athadra and Alistair both drew up short at the sight for the space of a breath, but the gallant Garahel shook them from their terror by launching himself straight at the Archdemon, barking madly.

Athadra moved instinctively, hefting her blade and running after the dog. “No!” She screamed. “Get back!” But it was no use; the mabari hound could outpace any one of them easily, and weighed down by her heavy plate and panoply of weapons, Athadra could not hope to catch up, and Garahel seemed deaf to her cries for him to come to heel. He moved to stand over an injured man at the Archdemon’s feet, heedless of the risk. The great dragon tried to swat at the dog, but Garahel leapt over the monster’s clawed hand, seizing it by the forelimb. The Warden cursed in at least three languages, trying desperately to close the distance, but the gap was too great to bridge. Before her very eyes, undaunted by the canine assault, the Archdemon reared back on its hind legs and swung Garahel up into the air. A tongue of dragon’s breath licked over the mabari, and Athadra’s elven ears heard her dog’s guttural whine get cut off partway through when the Archdemon’s jaws snapped about him.

Tears streamed down Athadra’s cheeks, so recently cleansed of the blood which had streaked them for most of the night. She had no thought for sound tactic, or even for self-preservation--rather, after what felt like an eon of running, the Warden’s mind held room only for death. She sent raw lightning in an arc with a swing of Starfang, aiming the blade at the magic’s impact with her upswing. Before it connected, however, the Archdemon’s talons swept her backward. She managed to hang on to her sword as she fell, and instinct had her rolling out of the way when the dragon sought to crush her, but she did not move to retreat. The Warden’s own screams filled her ears as she slashed at the dragon’s wicked maw, but the Archdemon reared back once more, and Starfang sparked as it struck stone beneath her feet. With a cry of frustration, Athadra dropped the weapon, unsheathing her longswords instead. The Warden finally found satisfaction when the runed steel grazed over the dragon’s underbelly and black blood oozed over pitted, leathery flesh. Those wounds appeared to insult the Archdemon more than injure it, but by now Alistair and the Sten had joined her, their own blades flashing at the dragon’s hide. Arrows stuck in the monster’s haunches, and it also had to fend off spells from Friga and Morrigan. With a great buffet of its wings, the tainted god rose into the air once more, pulling away from the combined assault to land upon a portion of the roof which the Wardens could not easily access.

The brief reprieve allowed Friga to rush over to Athadra’s side; the elf mage had found the charred hulk of Garahel, but she knew even before Friga told her that the mabari’s heart no longer beat within his chest. The Warden’s throat constricted, but no more tears spilled from her crimson eyes.

Alistair lay a hand upon her shoulder. “I’m...sorry, Athadra,” he breathed, but he withdrew the touch when her eyes flashed dangerously at him.

“Does the man live?” Athadra’s words came in a low snarl. “The bastard he died for?”

The uncrowned king looked over his shoulder. “Yes,” he breathed. “Thank the Maker.”

The Warden barked a laugh. “If you want to keep him that way,” she warned, “best not let me see him.” She re-sheathed her thinner swords and limped over to collect Starfang, while Alistair and Friga scrambled to get the unnamed soldier safely away from the grieving woman. “We haven’t got long,” she called, once the sovereign and the mage had returned, accompanied by Morrigan and the Sten. “You can feel it too, Alistair.”

The blond Warden nodded grimly. “It’s...calling out,” he explained to their fellows. “Probably for more darkspawn to come and overwhelm us.”

Morrigan waved to a nearby elevated turret, one of many ringing the top of the fort, which held a ballista and ammunition. “Is that not ground we might use to fend them off,” the Wilds-witch mused, “and still bring the attack?”

Athadra breathed a laugh, and then inclined her head. Without a word, she ran up the ramp, just as a stream of hurlocks and genlocks erupted from the doorway the Wardens had used to access the roof. Athadra spared no concern for what that must mean about their dwarven and magi rearguard, too focused on surviving at least one moment longer than the Archdemon, come what might. The Dalish elves and her closer companions followed her just in time; the two Wardens and the Sten stood fast against the tide of tainted monsters, while Hishal took point to reorient the ballista toward the resting dragon, rather than outward toward the burning city. Dozens of darkspawn fell and the elves managed to land three solid strikes before the Archdemon roused itself to rejoin the battle proper.

The Warden proceeded more deliberately this time, moving with her companions to push the surviving darkspawn back toward their master until they’d all fallen. More spells and arrows rained from behind them when the three warriors clashed directly with the dragon once again; the beast lashed out at them more desperately, but their blades bit into its flesh, sending rivers of corrupted blood pouring over their feet. Hishal sent a well-aimed bolt through the leather of the Archdemon’s left wing, and the Wardens cried in triumph when the dragon tried frantically to rise from the ground but only managed to stagger them with the force of its wingbeats. The monster roared, biting and snatching at the Wardens and the Sten in a frenzy even as they felt it calling out for more of its minions to join the fray. Athadra tried to boil the Archdemon’s black blood, but somehow the tainted god countered, and the Warden felt her own veins writhing beneath her flesh as the dragon moved to crush her yet again. Rather than roll away, Athadra answered the Old God’s attack with her greatblade, ramming the magic-enhanced steel through the dragon’s grasping hand. For an instant, the elf was reminded of her fight with the monster Flemeth had become, but the moment passed quickly; instead of wrenching its hand away, the Archdemon’s talons closed on Athadra’s forearms and began sucking in a deep breath.

Just then, the Sten’s greatblade shimmered by the Warden’s face, cutting deeply into the dragon’s thumb. Black blood gushed, yet the dragon did not shriek out--instead a jet of corrupted fire fountained down, spilling over the Archdemon’s own arm. Athadra felt heat envelop her, just as the Qunari’s hands found her hips and yanked her back...but she did not escape from the Archdemon’s grasp unscathed. A splash of purple flame rolled over the beast’s knuckle, headed straight for Athadra’s face. At the last second, the Warden managed to twist, so that the acidic fire broke over her neck and shoulder instead of her eyes and mouth. Despite her armour taking the brunt of the burn, pain lanced into the right side of Athadra’s head, her vision bleeding white, her ears unable to hear the scream which tore from her lungs.

Moment by moment, Athadra’s senses returned; she heard the clashing of steel on steel, and felt more nimble fingers work soothing magic into her flesh. Her nose filled with the stench of burnt meat and hair, nearly gagging her. When her eyes cleared, she saw Friga’s distraught face, and a ghost of agony whispered over the Warden’s nerves. “What? Is it over?”

The Avvar mage shook her head firmly. “The...dragon has crawled afar, and Hishal’s men are seeing to it.” The woman was obviously terrified, but she did not move from her crouched position. “Your wound is mostly superficial, but...” She stopped short, glancing away.

The Warden blinked the lingering spots from her eyes and took a quick look around. To her astonishment, she saw Arl Eamon and Fellhammer in the thick of battle with nearly twenty of their allies, against perhaps twice as many darkspawn who’d answered their master’s call. Alistair and the Sten fought at the fringes, clearly awaiting the Archdemon’s return to the fray. Tentatively, Athadra lifted her hand, pressing her bare palm into her neck. Even under duress, Friga had done her work well--the skin would scale over, but the flesh beneath had been saved. As the Warden’s hand ranged farther upward, though, she felt the source of the healer’s concern. A large chunk of Athadra’s coal-black hair had been singed away, and the point of her right ear had melted down, curling in upon itself. Her stomach tightened for an instant, but the Warden steadied herself with a breath, and moved to stand. “An ear’s small enough sacrifice,” she scoffed.  “Thank you, all the same.” She looked around for Starfang, before realizing that it must still be stuck through the Archdemon’s hand. With a roll of her shoulders, Athadra reclaimed her longswords and announced her presence with a wordless bellow. When she turned away from the knot of darkspawn, however, Friga gasped.

“Where are you going!?”

The Warden paused, throwing her a cutting glance. “To get my sword back,” she stated flatly. “Go back to Morrigan and Hirshal--you all can cover me.” Her tone would brook no argument, and so Friga gave none when Athadra stalked off. The elf ran halfway across the roof, skirting the central depression where the Archdemon writhed, attempting to dodge the bolts and arrows Hirshal’s elves volleyed at it. Arhadra screamed again, “Come on, you great flightless lizard!” Her swords sang as she clapped them before her. “Come and eat me!”

When her words had no effect on the creature, the Warden called upon her mana, summoning an orb of arcane energy which she strengthened with a bit of her own blood. Athadra loosed it right at the monster’s midsection, and was pleased to hear a cry of anguish when the ball of power struck home. That certainly earned her the Archdemon’s attention, but for good measure, the Warden tried anew to raise the beast’s blood against it. This time her labours bore more fruit, and she felt her own blood stirring with the effort of commanding so much life energy from so great a distance. Luckily, at least for Athadra’s purpose, the Archdemon cut the distance quickly by half-galloping across the gap. The Warden scrambled backward as the dragon moved bodily up the pit’s wall, still harassed by the elves’ arrows and the mages’ spells.

Athadra danced alone with the Archdemon, in the moments it took for the Sten and Alistair to respond to its reappearance. The tainted dragon had taken her hound and her ear, and very nearly her life, yet the Warden felt neither fear nor outrage. The battle-madness drove her blades, and the wild singing in her veins guided her feet; she dove and rolled, slicing at the Archdemon’s joints or piercing into its belly, and always managed to twist away from its reprisals. By the time her companions joined her, the monster was visibly weakened, lashing its tail and gnashing its pointed teeth at them. Its seductive call was nearly constant, now, and the human and dwarven reinforcements were hard-pressed to keep the darkspawn from coming to the Old God’s aid, but the Wardens battled on. After the Sten had opened another great rent in the dragon’s flank, and Athadra had driven one of her longswords into the joint of its left hip, the Archdemon spit another gout of tainted fire that drove the three of them several yards backward.

The great dragon reared, stretching out its long neck and keening forlornly at the smoke-clouded sky. One last bolt from Hishal’s ballista sunk into its shoulder, and the Archdemon pitched sideways. It seemed to take an Age for the beast to fall, though Athadra’s blood cried out almost painfully, her heart hammering nearly half a thousand times within her breast before the floor rumbled beneath her feet. The monster’s ravenous eye fixed the Warden intently, another plume of dragon’s breath dying in its nostrils. Without waiting to see if Morrigan was near, without even turning to Alistair, Athadra gripped her remaining longsword with both hands and ran straight for that vicious, slitted eye. The tip of her blade found purchase beneath the Archdemon’s jaw, and she pressed on, sawing the edge down the front of the Archdemon’s throat. The Old God’s ichor washed over Athadra’s legs, searing the joints of her armour with the sheer potence of the taint which the blood carried. “At last,” the Warden breathed, straddling just behind the dragon’s tilted skull, raising her sword hilt-first high above her head. A chance flicker of her gaze brought sight of Morrigan, standing a half-dozen feet away, her face apprehensive. Athadra’s heart hitched in her chest, her lips parting before she could still them. “I love you,” she mouthed, and saw the twin spasms of hope and fear race across the witch’s features.

And then Athadra wrenched her arms down, the point of her sword piercing the Archdemon’s eye and sinking through the brain beyond, all the way down to the stone of the roof. In that instant, the Warden’s world turned golden, as warm light exploded from the fatal wound. Fort Drakon’s roof shone brighter than the noonday sun and shook with the sound of a thousand anvils striking as one. The Warden’s mouth opened in a silent scream, but she felt no pain, even as the light itself crawled into her mouth and ears, seeking her very core. Just before her own eyes became useless in the omnipresent glow, Athadra fancied she saw Morrigan’s green-gold eyes widen, and as her senses dissolved into a sea of light, the elf couldn’t help but think of how beautiful the Wilds-witch had always been.


	65. The King's Grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair finally gets his crown, and Athadra receives all of the accolades that she never really wanted in the first place. She takes stock of her victory with her friends and allies, and bids farewell to a few dear friends.

“Arise, Alistair,” the Grand Cleric Elemena pronounced imperiously. “By the Maker’s Will, King of Ferelden.” The old woman’s smile was genuine, if slight. Alistair got to his feet, the modest circlet of gold resting solemnly upon his temples. He stood in the same armour that he’d worn for months, the gilded plate his half-brother had died in. In the six weeks since the Archdemon’s death, its many scratches and dents had been polished and evened out, until it looked new-made on the man.

A cry went up amongst the gathered nobility. “Long live the king!” They’d voted for him as their sovereign more than a month before, but it hadn’t been official until this very moment. The cheer was repeated twice more, but the monarch held up a hand to claim the crowd’s attention.

Alistair descended the stairs from his throne, coming to stand beside Anora. They’d been married mere hours ago, before the coronation, at the queen’s insistence. In private, she still called him _King-consort Alistair_ , and she’d likely maintain the illusion for many months to come, but it was obvious that the gathered arls and banns held their savior in much too high an esteem to let her carry on that way forever. “This is a great day for Ferelden,” Alistair began, much more authority in his voice than he’d normally shown over the last year. “For not only do we now have a king of Calenhad’s blood,” he continued, “but we stand victorious over the darkspawn menace, that so recently threatened the entire nation with destruction.” Another cheer went up at the pronouncement, and Alistair indulged it for a couple of moments, before moving on. “Today is the end of Drakonis,” he pointed out. “The Dragon’s End.” The king fixed his people, old comrades and new subjects both, with a hard stare. “It is also a very special day, which we should all remember from this year forth; for on this day, twenty years ago, the Hero of Ferelden was born!” He’d learned that from the Warden herself, just a few hours before the battle atop Fort Drakon. Applause accompanied the revelation, which Alistair continued to speak over. “I propose a new Annum,” he declared. “Let us make 30 Drakonis a feast day throughout the lands of this great nation! Let us celebrate it as the Wardens’ Day!”

The king turned from the crowd, his smile faltering only a little when he caught sight of Athadra, who stood in the shadow of a doorway. She held his gaze, her face a blank slate, but her crimson eyes held the echoes of her pain well enough to hobble his good mood slightly. The Warden hardly felt like celebrating anything; every day for nearly six weeks, she’d screamed herself awake with the most horrible memories of her journey, from her time in the Circle’s dungeon to watching Garahel’s charred and broken corpse hit cold slate. And every day, she’d had to come to grips with the fact that the only two creatures she’d truly loved in nearly a decade had both disappeared on the same night--one to the maws of the Archdemon, and the other to the four winds. Athadra had hardly seen her companions since two days after the battle, when she’d finally woken, astonished to find herself alive. From brief snatches of conversation with Eamon, Teagan, and Alistair, the Warden learned that the Archdemon’s death had instantly demoralized the darkspawn horde; Oghren had acquitted himself so well at the gates that the arl had judged himself able to follow Athadra’s companions into the city with a small force of his own, and once Fort Drakon lit up like a beacon, the monsters within and without the city had lost all sense of purpose. Even now, Fereldan regular soldiers patrolled the roads and woods of the country, putting down the disorganized bands into which the once-mighty force had dissolved.

Alistair’s silent plea stirred something within Athadra, seeping through the numbness which had enveloped her chest these past weeks. Swallowing with difficulty, the Commander of the Grey stepped from her comforting shadows, into the sunlight of the Landsmeet chamber. A few gasps sounded at her appearance; like Alistair, she wore the arms and armour in which she’d vanquished the Archdemon. The very same magic which had let it resize itself to fit her also worked to smooth any damage the plate incurred, almost as though it were a living thing. Athadra guessed that the nobles’ shock came from how she appeared above the collarbones--the hair she had not lost in the fight hung about her neck and head in greasy ropes and the ruin of her right ear was displayed for all to see, along with the pink leather across the back of her jaw and neck.

“And here she is,” Alistair announced, his cheery tone just a bit forced. “The Hero of Ferelden, Champion of Redcliffe, and Commander of the Grey!” The applause was more muted, at least until the king himself joined in, but it lasted not a second after Alistair stopped. “Because of Howe’s treachery against the Couslands of Highever, I hereby grant the arling of Amaranthine to the Grey Wardens. As Commander of the Grey in Ferelden, Commander Athadra shall henceforth assume the title of Arlessa of Amaranthine.” The news was slightly more controversial than the announcement about her nameday had been; as a mage, Athadra had no rights to any land or titles by divine law, at least outside of Tevinter. The sound of the Grand Cleric’s hiss was almost enough to draw a smirk to her lips, but none of the uncertain grumbles turned into open dissent. Alistair looked directly at the Warden once more, his eyes softening with concern. “Is there any other boon you would have of me, Commander?”

Athadra’s lips parted. _Bring her back to me_ , she very nearly said, but caught herself just in time. A glance at Grand Cleric Elemena reminded her of the passing conversation she and Alistair had shared, just before Morrigan’s first departure, on potentially reforming Ferelden’s Chantry. “I would have you establish a committee,” the Warden said, her voice cracking slightly. “To investigate the running of the Circle of Magi, and whether it is beneficently governed by the templars, in the wake of its near-Annulment so recently.”

The king nodded almost immediately. “It will be done,” he exclaimed. “A conclave of mages, priests, and lay authorities will gather to account for the governance of the Circle Tower, and make recommendations based on that accounting.” The Grand Cleric moved closer, voicing the start of a protest, but Alistair cut her off. “A mage risked her life time and time again for this country,” he pointed out, loudly, to all gathered. “Rich and poor, human and elven and dwarven, many people yet live but for the Warden Commander’s intervention, and her unfailing courage in this very city.” Alistair drew up to his full height. “Her example shows that we should at least consider how to rebuild the Circle and the templars, both devastated by the mistakes of the past.” The monarch spread his hands before him in a placating gesture. “Now, as your king, I command that each of you takes this day in celebration for all that the Maker has seen fit to grant us, despite our great trials of late.” He won them over with his brilliant smile, and soon the unease had melted into applause once more.

With that, the formalities seemed ended. Alistair and Anora retreated to stand beside their thrones and discuss privily, and Athadra was left adrift in front of the nobility of Ferelden, who began milling about and talking animatedly. She considered simply marching back to her chambers, elsewhere in the palace--or finding an alleyway that hadn’t yet been cleared of the corruption in which she might wallow in even surer peace--but First Enchanter Irving caught her eye. On a whim, she made her way to the older man, weaving around a knot of banns to do so.

“Congratulations, my child,” Irving lauded. “Or is that ‘Champion’? Or ‘Commander’? ...or ‘Arlessa’?” His grey-streaked beard shifted in a grin. “What about ‘Hero’?”

The Warden rolled her eyes. “That’s all Alistair’s doing,” she claimed. “Commander or Champion,” she settled. “How many mages got back?”

“Fourteen,” the first enchanter sighed. “Though Greagoir tells me all but two of those missing must have perished, since their phylacteries are of no help in locating them.”

The dwarves and elves had fared much worse, but Athadra didn’t see fit to mention that. “I hope the king’s as good as his word,” she said offhandedly.

Irving nodded. “I think he will be, though you know him far better than I. Even if this committee of his cannot agree to anything, it will set a notable precedent.” The man shrugged. “But you shouldn’t waste the afternoon talking to an old man,” he demurred. “I hear there’s a crowd gathered outside, demanding to see their hero.”

The Warden sighed, certain his term hadn’t been a coincidence, but she moved on regardless. Nearby, she came across Zevran, whom she hadn’t properly spoken with since before the assault on Denerim. The distance in his expression mirrored her own, distance wedged by all that had happened to them, separately and together. They’d never entertained stories of their histories together, as she’d shared so easily with Morrigan, but Athadra knew there were shadows in his past just as deep and dark as any cell in the Circle Tower.

“Your Highness,” he mocked, breaking their silence with a small bow. “How does it feel to be alive?”

“Hollow,” Athadra retorted, but she managed a half-convincing smirk. “I’m glad the Crows haven’t caught wind of you, yet.”

Zevran sighed. “They will, eventually...especially since I was witnessed slaying so many darkspawn beside the dwarf,” he pointed out. “But such are the risks of being an incredibly-skilled killer in a nation at war.”

“Not to mention being such a handsome demon?” Athadra’s brow arched, her smirk firming into something more genuine. “I imagine you’ll need some powerful friends to help keep the birds at bay, Zev.” She cast a glance over her shoulder, spying Alistair beyond Starfang’s hilt. “And our fresh king will likely need a bit of cloak-and-daggering done on his behalf.”

The assassin laughed. “Are you certain you don’t want to keep me around the capitol, _querida_?”

Athadra’s face smoothed again. “I’ll be in Amaranthine,” she reminded him. “Until they see fit to hang me or run me out of there.”

Zevran’s expression grew more grave. “I will remain here,” he assured her. “At least for a time...and you may call upon me, for any reason you wish.”

The Warden blinked, but she had no tears to hide. “I’ll consider it,” she offered, not entirely certain that she lied. An invisible wall had grown between them since her stay in Fort Drakon, a barrier thick with everything unsaid. With a parting smile and a shake of her head, Athadra moved on, pushing her way through the finely-dressed crowd until she saw a tangle of orange hair which could only belong to Leliana. The woman had a faraway look about her, as though she were mentally composing another ballad. When Athadra noticed Friga standing side-by-side with the bard, her suspicions were practically confirmed.

“Commander,” the Avvar mage said, bowing slightly. Even though she’d survived the Battle of Denerim untainted, Friga still played at being a Grey Warden, though Athadra had given no thought toward making it official...just as she hadn’t given thought toward much else of note.

“What are the two of you up to?”

“Oh, nothing, really,” Leliana said with a sigh. “Just discussing how to turn Friga’s poem into a proper hymn.”

Athadra suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. “I _knew_ it,” she shot back at them. “You’ll probably ruin it with mentions of the Maker and Andraste, and all that rubbish.”

By now, not even the Warden’s casual blasphemy could unmoor the half-Orlesian bard. “We’re thinking of calling it ‘the Battle Hymn of Denerim’, or something similar,” she informed the elf. Friga nodded, though she didn’t seem overcome with enthusiasm.

“Just...keep the old gods in, too,” Athadra pleaded. “If you can.”

Leliana arched a brow, but then shrugged. “I will see what I can do.”

The Warden might have asked her about the status of her _arrangement_ with Alistair, but Athadra didn’t figure that it was her concern...and she didn’t care to make it so. Instead, she gave the other two women a little smile, and kept shuffling her way through the crowd, this time seeking the fiery red hair of Oghren. She found the dwarf beside a keg of ale, naturally enough, and he already seemed to have drunk half of it. “Enjoying the surface swill?”

A burp and a blink brought his attention to the Warden. “Beats the pants offa lichen ale,” he half-slurred. “In Orzammar the drinks taste like dirt. Prob’ly ‘cause they put dirt in ‘em.” Even through the dwarf’s intoxication, he must have noticed a tightening settle over Athadra’s expression. “Aw, sod,” he cursed, taking a healthy drink from his mug. He’d often loudly complained, while deep in his cups, about Garahel stealing his trousers away. “I miss the big nug-chaser, too, boss.”

Athadra steadied herself with a breath and blinked a few times. “It were amazing he lasted so long with us,” she admitted. “How’s Felsi?”

Oghren took the rapid change in subject with surprising mental agility for a drunkard. “Prowlin’ around here somewhere. We’re, uh...” He covered his mouth, trying to hide the flush creeping over his cheeks. “Expectin’ a little nugget, next year.”

Athadra’s brow arched. “How do you know so soon?” She had the wherewithal to sound impressed, for dwarven children were notoriously rare.

“Mountain-woman said so,” he explained, referring to Friga. The term held obvious respect, for Avvars and dwarves interacted most often with one another, owing to their proximity. “It might not take, but Felsi’s tryin’ her best.”

    “Good wishes, then,” Athadra replied. “Hopefully the king and queen have some of what you’ve been drinking, too.” She managed a smile, though her thoughts flitted back to Morrigan, and the child she might carry.

    Oghren grunted a laugh. “I’ll show Golden Boy a thing’r two, if he ever comes callin’.” With that, he raised his mug in salute. “Here’s to you, Commander. We’re, uh...thinkin’ about namin’ the thing after you. If that’s okay, an’ all.”

    The thought of a little dwarf running around with an elven name was almost enough to flatter Athadra, but something made her shake her head. “Don’t do that to the poor thing,” she cautioned, smiling to soften the blow. “Best case, it tries to live up to the legend these bastards are spinning about me.” Her crimson eyes darted about. “Worst...things might not end so well for the sodding Hero of Ferelden.” She sneered that last, grimacing her disgust. “I really am flattered,” Athadra amended, “and it’s your decision...but a surface dwarf will have challenges aplenty, growing up amongst humans and elves. It don’t need my legacy to worry about on top of all that.”

    Oghren’s crimson beard-braids shifted with his grin. “Guess yer right,” he conceded. “Second name, then,” he announced, downing the rest of his ale and not bothering to stifle the belch which the suds stirred from his gut.

    Athadra inclined her head. “As you wish, General Oghren.” She spared another look over her shoulder, grateful that Alistair still stood on the raised platform, so that she could spy his blond head through the gaps in the crowd. “Take care of him for me, will you?” The dwarf’s conduct at the Denerim city gates had earned him a high commission with the Fereldan army, along with the gratitude of the city’s surviving residents.

    “I’ll do m’best,” Oghren promised. “Now gowan, ‘fore Felsi starts hearin’ gossip. You ain’t seen rage ‘till you’ve seen a big-bellied dwarven woman on a tear.”

Athadra’s laugh surprised her, ringing true in her ears, and she turned from the dwarf with the ghost of a smile lingering on her lips. When she neared the chamber’s big oaken doors, she observed Shale standing in one corner of the room, with the Sten playing the sentinel in the opposite corner. As bone-weary as the brief display had already made her, the Warden did not want to pass-up a chance to converse with the Qunari, perhaps for the final time. Yet she turned to the stone woman, unwilling to snub her after all they’d seen together.

“You’ve finally emerged from your seclusion,” Shale observed, a bit of warmth in her craggy face. “One might have thought success beyond your wildest hopes would have provoked a different response...but then, success unshared can turn bitter for us all.”

Athadra’s lips parted at the golem’s words, but it took her a moment to collect her thoughts. “Indeed,” she finally settled. “I can’t let myself mope forever, though.” She swallowed at the lump in her throat.

“Do you intend to find the swamp-witch, then?”

The Warden hesitated again, though after a moment’s pause, she gave a singular nod. “I’ll chase her to the end of Tevinter, if I must,” Athadra vowed, her thumb gliding along the ridge of the pewter ring she still wore. “It may take me years, but I mean to try.”

“Good,” Shale offered. “I find myself at the start of a similar quest, myself.” The pebbles around her mouth curved into a small smile. “The first enchanter has agreed to take me back to the Circle Tower, to try and restore me to my flesh-filled body. And if he does not suit, I may well trudge all the way to Minrathous myself.”

“I hope you find what you seek,” Athadra replied. “And that our paths cross again, come what might.”

The golem affected a small bow. “I only ask that if you should see a small dwarven woman, cowering in fear of the birds’ vengeance, that you take pity on me.” In the course of their journey together, Shale had crushed and wrung enough birds into greasy paste to secure her the wrath of several different species of avian.

The Warden smirked, shaking her head in mock-disbelief. “The mighty Shayle of House Cadash,” she breathed. “Reduced to whimpering over fear of a good beaking.” She held out her hand, and the golem extended her own, gingerly giving the flesh-and-bone limb a brief embrace. “Until next time, Shale.” With that, Athadra turned, crossing the floor to the first giant who’d deigned to follow her into death and glory.

He did not speak first, though his violet eyes lit with amusement, and possibly a hint of admiration. After almost a minute of silent staring, however, the Qunari’s tongue wet his lips. “My ship sails for Seheron at eventide,” he allowed. “The cabin is too large for my liking.”

Athadra picked up on the implied offer almost immediately, and her breath caught. “You would see it put to better use?”

“If you were of a mind,” he replied. “At least partway, to Antiva perhaps, or Rivain.”

The elf mage knew well the reasons why she would be unwelcome in Seheron, and she felt little desire to see the Sten’s homeland from the point-of-view of a _saarebas_. “I am honoured that you’d want to spend the trip with me,” she said, her chest tightening. “But there are too many darkspawn still afoot for the Commander of the Grey to disappear to Antiva.” The half-truth of her excuse made the refusal easier for her to bear. “You’ve been...my only real friend,” she admitted, holding his gaze.

“I have nearly killed you on at least two occasions,” he countered. “And if glares were coin, the healer would have made me wealthy by now.”

“And yet I live,” Athadra pointed out. “Because of you.”

“As this city yet lives, because of you, Kadan.” He offered her a smile. “I believe I understand what these people mean by the name of ‘hero’.” He drew up, tilting his head toward the chamber’s high windows; even through her burnt ear, Athadra could hear cheers and chants echoing from the thoroughfare outside. “The Qunari occasionally proclaim someone _Qunoran-vehl_ , one who serves as example to others.” His lips twitched into a hinted frown. “There are parades and singing in the streets, meditations abandoned...it is madness.”

“It weren’t my idea,” Athadra sighed. “But the damned fools in this country seem to think that if they say ‘thank you’ for something you’ve done, you’re an awful villain if you don’t feel like saying ‘you’re welcome’.”

The Sten’s brow drew down. “It is customary for an Arishok to only declare one Qunoran-vehl after they have died,” he continued. “A living Qunoran-vehl would be...too proud.” This time, it was he who extended his hand. “Do not let your legend spoil your worth, Kadan. Remember that your joys and tragedies were not undertaken for the cheering of the crowd; your purpose remains, even if the mob’s gratitude proves fickle.”

The Warden squeezed the Sten’s forearm with all of the strength he’d given her. “I hope you have a good journey home, Sten.”

The Qunari inclined his head. “One day, the Arishok will bid me to return to this continent,” he said lightly. “When that day comes, I will not look to find you on the battlefield.”

“Nor I you,” Athadra concurred. “But I do hope we meet again, short of war.” Then, without considering it overlong, the Warden pulled him into a quick hug that had her nose pressed uncomfortably against his armour. Unlike the rest of the crowd--even her companions--he did not wear the fine clothes which peace fooled the highborn into donning. She felt the Sten pat her shoulder before they pulled apart.

“Go, now,” the Sten counseled. “Before the doors are broken in.”

The Warden steadied herself with a breath. “Goodbye,” she allowed herself to say, and she turned to push open those great doors under her own power. A guard rushed to accompany her through the antechamber, but Athadra had no words to offer him as she past over the spot where she’d killed Ser Cauthrien. The numbness of the past month settled over her again when she neared the exterior doors, but she welcomed it; the screams and cries of joy which erupted at her appearance would have been far too difficult to withstand, otherwise.


	66. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athadra grows into her role as the Warden Commander of Ferelden, and has to rise to a new challenge from the darkspawn, as well as deal with meddlesome nobles and a new batch of Wardens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains many of the broad-strokes events of Dragon Age: Origins: Awakening, so beware of spoilers.

The _Blight Companions_ , as Leliana’s many ballads and poems termed them, did not last long as a cohesive group once their _raison d’etre_ had ceased to be. The Sten boarded his ship that very night, bound for the tropical Northern island-nation of Seheron, from whence he’d come. Shale and First Enchanter Irving decamped not long after, bound for Kinlock Hold and whatever arcane secrets might lead to her shedding stone and reclaiming flesh. Zevran, Oghren, and Leliana remained stationed in the capitol, but in far different capacities than they’d served during their year of wandering at Athadra’s behest. The assassin and the bard both fell into more familiar roles of subterfuge and stealth on the king’s behalf, while the dwarf strained under the weight of leading units of men.

The months following Alistair’s coronation saw some measure of order return to Ferelden, though it was something of a compromise between the time before the Blight and that of the Blight itself; much of the bannorn returned to their traditional bickering, while large bands of darkspawn still roved, especially through the South and the Northeast, where a significant splinter of the Archdemon’s horde had fled to. Strangely, activity seemed greatest around the arling and port city of Amaranthine itself, where Athadra set to work rebuilding the Fereldan Grey Wardens. For her part, the Commander took out her grief for losing Garahel and Morrigan by slaughtering dozens of the fiends every day. She had a handful of seasoned Orlesian Wardens to advise her in her capacity as Commander of the Grey, as well as some Ander administrators with strong ties to the Order in Weisshaupt which helped her to govern Amaranthine. The foreign Wardens did not seem troubled by the stubbornness of the darkspawn which remained, counseling that the monsters would likely raid for years to come in smaller and smaller groups, during what the Wardens had come to call _the Thaw_.

Thus, at least for a time, good will for Athadra’s warriors remained high. Avernus elected to remain at Soldier’s Peak in solitude, the better to continue his research. That was where the Commander stored the bulk of the Archdemon’s blood, collected diligently under Alistair’s direction during her convalescence--a few conversations with Riordan over the course of the headlong march to Denerim convinced them of the need, and though they did not reveal the reason why, Arl Eamon gladly helped his saviors in their endeavor. Over time, representatives from the differing Grey Warden orders throughout Thedas came to replenish their stores, and Athadra was content to let the lion’s share of it drain away. She and Avernus worked together in secret on what blood remained, eventually purifying and offsetting it in a manner similar to the alchemist’s original research on Warden blood. Athadra absorbed as much of the concentrated taint into her veins as Avernus thought wise, and over the course of weeks they crafted a version of the Joining ritual which would use her own lifeblood in lieu of the tainted god’s. That way, she did not have to jealously conserve her store of Archdemon blood for future generations.

After three months of proceeding in this manner, her time split between governing an arling, killing darkspawn with her Orlesian comrades, and deepening her understanding of tainted blood, Athadra felt she could put off recruitment no longer. If the Grey Wardens were to maintain their presence in Ferelden, she would need to populate her ranks with Fereldans...and that meant testing her and Avernus’ concoction upon a civilian. Friga, still Connor’s private tutor, was nevertheless adamant that she wished to become a Grey Warden in fact as well as in name, and so Athadra chose the Avvar mage for the first trial-run of the concoction. It worked better than the Commander could have hoped, and Friga returned to Redcliffe with Athadra’s blood mingled with her own.

Not long after, the Commander went to Denerim on a true scouting mission. Stroud, her Orlesian second-in-command, returned to Jader in Orlais to make a formal report on the Order’s progress in Ferelden; the Warden Kristoff took it upon himself to investigate some strange darkspawn activity in Amaranthine’s reputedly-haunted Blackmarsh while the Commander was away. Thus the two men were spared when, just before Athadra’s return to the fortress of Vigil’s Keep where she’d made her headquarters, a highly-organized group of darkspawn attacked and massacred or kidnapped the six Orlesian Wardens who’d remained.

Athadra’s visit to Denerim was profitable enough; Alistair had called a tourney, from which the Commander selected the two most promising fighters--an accomplished female knight named Mhairi, who seemed even more idealistic about the Grey Wardens than Alistair had been, as well as a man Athadra suspected of being her lover, called Rowland. Halfway back up the road to Amaranthine, the trio were also joined by Oghren, who’d chafed too long amongst the human lords and generals and wanted to recommit his life to slaying darkspawn once more. He did not offer any information about Felsi’s thoughts on the matter, but neither did the Commander ask.

When the small party arrived to find the Vigil under siege from within, both Athadra and Oghren took to battle eagerly, reliving their former glories with sword and axe and tainted blood. The two humans did not fare quite so well; Rowland, while possessed of decent skill upon a well-governed melee ground, had obviously never faced an opponent determined to kill him. He became grievously injured, beyond Athadra’s ability to heal; instead, the Commander shattered Mhairi’s illusions of Grey Warden nobility when she opened the man’s throat herself. Not long after, they picked up a jaunty apostate mage who called himself Anders, and who’d almost certainly murdered his templar gaolers mere moments before the Commander and her companions followed the darkspawn into the Vigil’s brig. He tried to blame the tin-tops’ deaths on the tainted monsters, but Athadra gave him the credit anyway, and bid the man follow her at least until her home had been secured.

After hours of fighting, Athadra reached the very top of Vigil’s Keep, where a group of darkspawn held the Fereldan seneschal, Varel, hostage. The Commander managed to save him, but not before one of the darkspawn shocked them all by _talking_. Its words were simple, not much more sophisticated than those of an older child, but it could clearly reason and seemed to be working on someone’s--or _something’s_ \--orders. After she slew the fiend, Athadra worried that her bargain with Morrigan had already turned sour...but over the coming days, the Commander learnt of something far more sinister than the vanished witch’s magic rite.

An intelligent darkspawn who styled himself _the Architect_ had spent years working in the Deep Roads amongst his brethren, tirelessly attempting to free them from the irresistible call of the Old Gods and the worst effects of their own corruption. From what she could piece together later, Athadra surmised that the Architect had come up with something fairly similar to Avernus’ innovation--taking blood from Grey Wardens in a ritual not unlike the Joining appeared to awaken some nascent consciousness in the darkspawn, almost like the Lady of the Forest had worked on her beloved werewolves. The Architect even claimed responsibility for finding and tainting the Old God Urthemiel, and thus triggering the Fifth Blight. At some point, the Architect had also awakened a human broodmother, who bore clutches of darkspawn already-awakened as well. The monster’s circumstance had driven her mad, however, and she rebelled against the Architect’s plan to bring accord between darkspawn and the other races of Thedas.

In this way, Athadra found herself being played like a pawn in something of a civil war between the two factions of darkspawn, led respectively by the Architect and the Mother. Along the way, she recruited Anders and eventually helped him kill a squadron of templars sent to execute him despite his status as a Grey Warden. That earned the Commander his loyalty, at least for a time. Also in the weeks which followed retaking Vigil’s Keep from the Architect’s forces, Athadra replaced the Orlesians who’d perished or been abducted. Unfortunately for Mhairi, the amended Joining ritual cooked up by Athadra and Avernus proved at least occasionally fatal, despite the recruit’s aspirations.

Luckily, however, Athadra managed to spread her blood several more times with greater success. Aside from Anders and Oghren, the Commander recruited another dwarf, a casteless woman called Sigrun who’d survived in a detachment of the Legion of the Dead; a Dalish mage who styled herself Velanna; and, perhaps strangest of all, Nathaniel Howe--the second son of Rendon Howe himself, and the dispossessed heir of the arling of Amaranthine. The man had nearly bested four of the Orlesian Wardens on the eve of the darkspawn assault at the Vigil; that, along with his skills with a bow and unlocking doors, told Athadra that she should either kill him or keep him under her watchful eye. Owing to the desperate circumstances thrust upon her, the Commander sided against executing the rogue. Nathaniel had also been a squire in the Free Marches for years before the Blight, and so had been ignorant of all of his father’s machinations--when he rediscovered his long-lost sister, Delilah, in the city of Amaranthine, the newly-minted Grey Warden calmed significantly and Athadra rested a bit more easily. She still slept with a shanker under her pillow, but at least she could close both eyes from then on.

When the Commander’s investigation of the Architect and the Mother brought her to the Blackmarsh, she even regained Kristoff, after a fashion. The man had been killed, but one of the Mother’s disciples lay in wait for Athadra’s party, and used powerful magic to send them all into the Fade. Oghren nearly lost his mind at first, but eventually Athadra and Anders guided Oghren and Nathaniel through the land of dreams. When they emerged from the Fade, a spirit embodying the human virtue of justice was pulled through the Veil with them, latching onto the relatively-fresh corpse. Thereafter, Justice followed the Grey Wardens as they came to grips with the struggle between the Mother and the Architect. The spirit did not truly want to be there, in a rotting body with a stranger’s memories, but it used Kristoff’s skills to slaughter many darkspawn to avenge the slain Warden’s murder. Anders also grew closer to the spirit, and occasionally Athadra caught them conversing about the unjust plight of mages in Ferelden and most of Thedas more generally. Alistair’s promised committee had yet to materialize, despite the king’s honest efforts; he had his own troubles to contend with, presiding over the great-great-grandchildren of Alamarri barbarians who never seemed to forget their disputatious heritage.

Autumn came and went while the Grey Wardens sought to clarify their position regarding the conflict between the two different factions of darkspawn. In that time, along with the recruits Athadra gathered, Stroud returned with three more Orlesian Wardens to help bolster Amaranthine’s defences. Under threat from the holdover of the Blight, the Commander allowed human politics to largely devolve to Varel, who’d dealt with many of the banns under Amaranthine’s jurisdiction for a number of years during the last Arl Howe’s tenure. Nevertheless, Howe had cultivated allies amongst his underlings, and on more than one occasion Athadra had to involve herself in their machinations--at one point, foiling an assassination attempt by the Antivan Crows, who’d been duped into the contract without realizing that the Arlessa of Amaranthine and the Commander of the Grey were one in the same. Shortly thereafter, Athadra had to defuse a half-baked ‘revolution’ of peasants against her rule. The Commander managed to scare the peasants into going back home, only to be confronted by Bann Esmerelle of Amaranthine City and a group of conspirators against the Grey Wardens’ rule. Another Crow very nearly killed the Commander, but Varel took the arrow in his forearm instead. Athadra took the bann alive, and that’s how she was hung by her ankles, naked, from the front gate of the Vigil.

As snow gripped even the Northern coastline of Ferelden, the two warring tribes of sentient darkspawn brought their conflict to a bloody resolution. Over the past few years, the Mother had bred herself a vast army, and she looked to use those numbers to force Athadra’s hand against the elusive Architect. When the Commander refused the mad broodmother’s envoy, the Mother launched a two-pronged assault upon Vigil’s Keep and the port city of Amaranthine itself, and Athadra had to choose which her Wardens would defend. Still feeling resentful over Esmerelle’s bad faith, the Commander let the city burn to the ground. Velanna disappeared in the battle for the Vigil, while Varel and two of the Orlesians lost their lives and Kristoff’s body was destroyed. Stroud himself nearly died, but Anders’ healing skills were a match even for Friga, and the mage was able to pull the Orlesian back from the brink of death. The Mother’s army broke and fled from the battlefield. Not long after, Athadra led her Wardens to raid the Mother’s lair and end the threat she posed, once and for all. Along the way, the Commander made something of an alliance with the Architect, agreeing to occasionally supply him with Grey Warden blood in exchange for his promise never to kidnap any more of her troops. Stroud and Oghren both registered their objections to the arrangement, but after the Mother’s bloated corpse lay cooling in its cave, the Commander convinced her subordinates that she would deal with the Architect eventually.

By Wintersend, it became clear that King Alistair’s experiment in letting the Grey Wardens rule Amaranthine was a failure. In truth he had doomed it from the start, the moment he’d taken Arl Howe’s life; that, coupled with Athadra’s mistakes, had set much of the arling’s nobility against her. The decision to sacrifice the valuable trading centre of Amaranthine City in place of the landlocked fortress of Vigil’s Keep was enough to turn the populace against the Commander as well--rumours abounded that it was her presence which had caused the darkspawn to concentrate in the arling, while much of the rest of the country was already well on the way to recovering from the Blight. Athadra could not even be certain that the rumours were false. Thus, in the springtime of 9:32 Dragon, the Commander of the Grey conceded her title and claim on Amaranthine back to the crown. At her and Nathaniel’s recommendation, Alistair granted Delilah Howe the title of arlessa, while the Wardens relocated to Denerim for a time.

The First Warden communicated his regrets that the Commander could not hold onto the territory, and requested that Athadra voyage to Weisshaupt in person to give an accounting of the months spent there, as well as the phenomenon of the Architect and its conflict with the Mother. Before setting off on this journey, however, Athadra took advantage of her closer proximity to both King Alistair and Arl Eamon. The older man had remained in the capitol as an advisor to the king, letting his brother rule in his stead; since Connor was Eamon’s only other heir, and could not inherit by the curse of magic, Teagan was very likely to become the next Arl of Redcliffe officially. Yet the Commander still enjoyed great popularity within the village and surrounding countryside, and answered to ‘Champion’ as easily as to her Grey Warden title. Just before she departed to the Anderfels, Athadra enlisted Leliana’s aid in planting the seed of an alternative in Arl Eamon’s thoughts--the tantalizing possibility that Connor might one day inherit the arl’s lands after all, and possibly even a higher title than his father had.

For in truth, the political realities in Ferelden had been indelibly altered by the Blight and the concurrent civil war. After Calenhad had united the myriad of teyrnirs, the ancient king had divided the nation into two: the Teyrnir of Highever, whose capitol lay on the Northern Waking Sea, and the Teyrnir of Gwaren, based out of a village on the country’s Southeastern coast. Thus power had traditionally been divided along an axis, running Northeast from Denerim to Honnleath in the Southwest. Yet now the Southern and Western parts of the country both lay in ruins, whereas the North and East, save for Denerim itself and Amaranthine, had largely been spared the great scourge of the Blight. Now that the business between the Architect and the Mother had been dealt with, the Thaw’s greatest threats still lay in the Hinterlands and the Western shore of Lake Calenhad.

Taking that in mind, Leliana slowly coaxed Arl Eamon and King Alistair into thinking they’d come up with Athadra’s idea themselves. In short, while Athadra was away in Weisshaupt attending to Grey Warden matters, Alistair busied himself with realigning the political framework of Ferelden. A Landsmeet was called which lasted for two whole months, but by the end of it, he’d gotten Anora to agree to give up her title of Teyrna of Gwaren--and at a stroke, he abolished the domain, creating the Teyrnir of Redcliffe in its stead. Ferelden still had one king and two teyrns, like Calenhad had designed; now, however, the country’s main political axis ran from Gwaren to Lothering, and from there to Kinloch Hold. All of the banns and arls to the West owed fealty to Redcliffe, while all those East were pledged to Highever. For his part, the newly-made Teyrn Eamon passed a decree in which the Commander of the Grey would inherit his lands and titles upon Eamon’s death or renunciation. The Grey Wardens would be stationed where Ferelden’s need was most dire, and they would see the land recovered from the worst ravages of the Blight. Not far from the old man’s mind was the insinuation, passed through Leliana, that Connor might well succeed Athadra as Commander of the Grey if the boy decided to take up the griffon emblem once he came of age to take the Joining.

While absent in far-away Weisshaupt, Athadra’s attentions were not entirely devoted to Fereldan intrigue. She’d left Oghren to command in her stead, and she’d sent Stroud to scout out the possibility of establishing an outpost in the Southern Free Marches. Though he tried to keep it a secret, Athadra also knew that Anders had let Justice take up residence within him--after Kristoff’s corpse had become unusable, the mage did not want his friend to have to steal another, or to resort to possessing someone against their will. The Commander was further aware that the Chantry sought to discredit the Grey Wardens in Ferelden, since King Alistair had also managed to establish his promised committee to investigate the Fereldan Circle. Thus it was not entirely a coincidence when Oghren, under secret instruction, allowed a group of ill-disguised templars to partake in the Joining ritual. It was certainly not a coincidence when those templars attempted to murder Anders for being an abomination, and instead died for their trouble; Athadra was not surprised, either, when she heard from Stroud that the renegade mage had sought refuge from Ferelden’s templars in Kirkwall of all places. The city should have been an odd choice for Anders--it was the largest of the Southern Free Marches, second perhaps only to Starkhaven to its North, and it held the greatest concentration of templars anywhere outside of Orlais. Yet Athadra sought to reverse the fortunes both of the Grey Wardens and the templar order in Kirkwall, even if the project took years; Anders would have his part to play in that, even if he was officially estranged from the Wardens.

After six months in the Anderfels, where she not only traded war stories and forged friendships with the First Warden and his lieutenants, but deepened her skills at diplomacy and proved her valour in the country’s perennially-darkspawn-infested Blight Lands, Athadra could no longer resist the call of duty and of her homeland. She had not forgotten her vow to Shale, to hunt for Morrigan even if it took the rest of her life, but her private passions could not overmatch the responsibilities of her hard-won station. Nevertheless, the Commander kept her eyes and ears open on her journey from Weisshaupt, through Nevarra and the Free Marches. She heard little more than rumour of a different Witch of the Wilds altogether, however, and by the time she reached Cumberland to take ship to Highever, Athadra contented herself with taking up the search another time. Of her family she’d also heard nothing, though she privately held out hope that they’d somehow found refuge from the darkspawn and the treachery of human lords. Yet when the Champion of Redcliffe arrived in the village she’d saved and then helped to elevate to a teyrnir, she found an unexpected surprise from her past waiting for her there, which proved enough to abate the melancholy of her solitude.

That tale will have its telling, along with many others touched by the Commander’s schemes. Those stories all have their foundations here, in the chronicle of Athadra Surana. Born an elven mage in a world hostile to elves and magic, irreligious in a land all but ruled by priests, saddled with a curse in her blood, she refused to succumb to her fate. Tainted she may be, but she will never surrender.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone who's read and reviewed this story, especially Vicky79, Herebedragons, and scout4it. While not as epic as some, it was still a great and interesting challenge, and leaves me wanting more.


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